


From Now On, Our Troubles Will Be Out of Sight

by HarleighJean1822



Series: Would It Be Enough... [2]
Category: The Order (TV 2019)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:53:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28011939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarleighJean1822/pseuds/HarleighJean1822
Summary: Randall thought the only thing scarier than someone trying to kill the love of your life, confessing your undying love to said love of your life, and everything else that happened a year ago would be juggling medical school with his duties as a Knight.Then again, Randall has never proposed to someone before...(Title is from the song “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”)
Relationships: Alyssa Drake/Jack Morton, Lilith Bathory/Nicole Birch, Randall Carpio/Hamish Duke
Series: Would It Be Enough... [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051661
Comments: 46
Kudos: 39





	1. In which Hamish's parents suck and Randall notices something shiny...

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends!
> 
> I know we all have different feelings around this time of year. We don't all celebrate Christmas or Hanukkah or maybe any holidays at all, but this time of year, especially with everything happening in the world, has me bursting at the seams with love and fuzzy feelings. 
> 
> So... these are my fuzzy feelings. :D

It is nothing short of a miracle that Randall not only survived his first year of medical school, but his lowest score all semester was a sixty-eight in biochemistry. Biochemistry. No one does well in biochemistry, he doesn’t even think biochemists know what they’re doing. Plus, that particular exam was at eight in the morning right after he’d been hunting down some guys who must not have read the ‘What is Consent?’ pamphlets because using magic to get girls to “loosen up” is definitely not consent, and he literally went straight from the Temple to take his test wearing Hamish’s clothes - 

> “OK, here’s your baddies, I gotta go fail my biochemistry test, love you, bye!” 
> 
> “Randall, you’re wearing a bathrobe.”
> 
> “...shit! My test is in thirty minutes, I don’t have time to go change!” 
> 
> Hamish had glanced down at his own clothes. “What about these?”
> 
> “... those would work.”
> 
> And then a cashmere sweater hit him in the face, closely followed by some rather fetching dark gray slacks. 

\- and chugging an extra large gas station coffee. It was disgusting and he threw it up the second he finished his test, which is probably for the best because it tasted like it was going to rot a hole in his stomach, but it kept him awake long enough to take the test, make it through the rest of his day, and promptly collapse onto the couch the second he walked into the Den. 

But he passed. Some might even say Randall _thrived_. He wouldn’t. He doesn’t think anyone who knows him well would, but his new medical school friends and his teachers were impressed at how well he kept it together. Apparently they had no idea how tired and stressed he was, or how much all this studying was killing his back - the kitchen table at the Den is no longer for meals, it is for Randall to lay on and stretch out over, or for someone to please come rub out all the knots in his shoulders and back because he is in pain -, or how hard he was working to balance being a Knight with being a full-time medical student. (That last bit is a good thing because they’re not supposed to know he’s a werewolf. Cover not blown, score!)

The thing is, Randall knew medical school would be hard. He knew it would be intense. He knew he’d have to stop wearing sweatpants and hoodies - the scrubs aren’t that far off, that’s not so bad - and start dressing like a functioning member of society who didn’t just roll out of bed or stroll out of the gym, but knowing all of this and living it are drastically different things. Throw the Knights stuff into the mix, and basically that’s all Randall does anymore - cut open a cadaver and shadow a jackass attending and turn into a werewolf and fall asleep at the kitchen table while his friends decorate the Christmas tree and wake up covered in tinsel.

Aside from their ridiculous ‘Let’s do weird stuff to Randall because he’s sleeping’ antics, his friends and Hamish have been godsends this semester. And he feels bad because he’s been tired and stressed and he spends more time with Frank the Cadaver than he does with anyone else, which sucks so. bad. 

Especially Hamish. They went from being inseparable to ‘Hi, love you, bye!’ and ‘Hi, babe, how was your day? Sorry/Awesome/That sucks/I missed you, too, love you, goodnight.” And Hamish never complains about it. He is so damn supportive and he brags about Randall at all the stupid Order functions they have to go to now, and he’s carried Randall to the couch or bed, like, elven times now when he’s fallen asleep in weird places. Like the aforementioned kitchen table, but he also fell asleep in the woods after wolfing out, in the bathtub, and in the laundry room after he pulled a blanket out of the dryer with every intention of folding it and putting it in the linen closet, but… it was warm and soft and it smelled like that nice fabric softener only Hamish is willing to spend money on, and he was tired so he wrapped himself up in it and took a nap in the corner. 

> “Randall, it’s fine,” Hamish had laughed when Randall moped about all of this over lunch the other day. “We’re a team. You take care of me, I take care of you, right?”
> 
> He’d sighed and stabbed a piece of chicken from his ‘protein power bowl’ - it did not make him feel powerful, it just made him sad and Greybeard disappointed in his life choices. “Right.”
> 
> “OK, so just focus on school and let me handle the other stuff.” Hamish took the bowl from Randall and handed him half of his sandwich. “Why did you even-”
> 
> “This is what people eat in med school,” he groaned. “I should have taken a year off. We have so much going on and -”
> 
> “Hey.” Hamish gently grabbed his chin and tilted his head up. “I love you, and I’m really proud of you. We all are. You are not letting anyone down. No one is mad at you for being busy and zoning out halfway through every conversation or missing your night to make dinner or vacuum or anything else. 
> 
> “Everything with the Order is fine. Praxis is happy, the Sons of Prometheus are happy, Bashmet is still hiding in the Yukon. We don’t need you and Greybeard going all ‘Big Bad Wolf’ on anyone right now, so you’re not slacking there, either.
> 
> “I talked to your parents last night and they’re doing great except your dad has a client who he had a lot of ‘scary porn’ on their computer so he’s scarred for life, but they are also very proud of you and send their love, including cookies and miniature cakes which should get delivered any day now. 
> 
> “And, last but most certainly not least, you don’t have to eat whatever weird healthy thing the rest of your classmates eat because you are a werewolf with either a kickass metabolism or a very spoiled tapeworm. You can eat twelve cheeseburgers a day and still be the hottest, sexiest piece of ass on the planet.”
> 
> “Not a tapeworm.”
> 
> “If you say so. Did I miss anything?”
> 
> “... no,” he sighed, setting the sandwich aside in favor of hugging the shit out of his boyfriend. “You’re really going to like the tiny cakes if they’re the ones I’m thinking of.”
> 
> “Is that your way of telling me you’re going to eat all of them in the middle of the night?”
> 
> “... I’ll share with you but no one else.”

But everyone has been great. Lilith caught him looking at LOA forms and yanked them out of his hands so fast he thought his fingers were going to blister. Nicole rations his energy drinks and forces him to drink water instead. Gabrielle walks on his back since she is the most nimble and least concerned about hurting him. Jack forces him to stop studying and go to the gym with him or to watch whatever dumb TV show they’re all sucked into that week - Randall is absolutely obsessed with _Schitt's Creek_ , where has that been his whole life? -, and Alyssa sends him random weird memes and ‘You can do it!’ texts. 

Now that he thinks about it, it’s kind of like all of the Knights+2 are suffering their way through medical school, right there with him. That’s so cute. Except Gabrielle will probably wind up in medical school herself to pursue her forensic psychiatry ambitions, and the thought of her interacting with patients is both thrilling and terrifying.

Endless encouragement and support from his friends and boyfriend/werewolf-husband aside, the real game changer for surviving medical school was the moment Randall realized he could tape his diagrams to the underside of the kitchen table and lay on the floor to stare up at them. No more back aches from bending or leaning over his notes and no more headaches from staring at his laptop. Plus it’s a big table, so there’s plenty of space to tape up all kinds of stuff and all he has to do is shimmy down to the next diagram. Horizontal studying for the win!

Technically he’s on break, but he doesn’t trust his brain to hold onto this stuff if he doesn’t look at it at least once a week, so he smacks a labelled post-it note onto the frontal cortex and shoves a gingerbread cookie into his mouth as a reward for his perfectly labelled brain. He’s really good at the brain stuff. Maybe he should specialize in neurology. 

Gravel clinks outside as Hamish’s car pulls up to the house.

It’s only two in the afternoon. Hamish shouldn’t be home yet. This can only mean that Hamish is up to something. Or something is wrong but Greybeard usually knows that before Randall does, and he’s enjoying the peace and quiet. And the cookies.

Not that Hamish won’t see him under there or smell him and his stack of gingerbread cookies, but Randall pulls his knees up to make sure he’s completely hidden under the table on the off chance that Hamish is distracted enough by whatever dastardly deed has brought him back to the Den that he won’t think to look for Randall at all. 

The door swings up and slams shut, followed by a long, loud sigh and muffled voices on the other end of Hamish’s cell phone. 

“This was a courtesy call, not an invitation for a debate,” Hamish says in a clipped voice. “I’m not asking for anything from either of you, I’m just keeping you informed.”

Either of who…?

“Absolutely not.”

Uh oh, that’s Hamish’s angry voice. Better save a few of these cookies for him. 

  
“Because you’re treating this like an investment instead of my life, and it has nothing to do with you!”

Maybe Randall should go out there…

Hamish stops in his tracks by the window, facing away from the kitchen so it’s very possible he hasn’t realized Randall is home. 

“Fine. Saturday night, _if_ he’s free and _if_ he wants to meet you.” 

Is Randall the ‘he’ in this situation? Because he’s definitely free on Saturday but Hamish knows that, so maybe he’ll get a ‘migraine’ on Saturday and save them both from whatever the hell… all of that is.

Hamish’s phone hits the floor and shatters. 

Wow. OK, this is bad. 

Randall slides out from under the table and waves a cookie in Hamish’s direction. “Wanna come down here or should I come out there?”

Hamish glances over from where he’s glaring at the Christmas tree and wilts. “Sorry. I forgot you were home.”

Randall shrugs and jerks his head for Hamish to join him and, honestly, this is probably the least ridiculous thing Randall’s done since starting medical school so it’s not surprising at all when Hamish just takes off his jacket and crawls under the table with him. 

“Cookie?”

Hamish shakes his head.

“This one’s really good,” Randall coaxes. “Spicy and crunchy. Perfect for hate-snacking.”

Hamish sniffs out a reluctant sounding laugh and plucks the cookie from Randall’s hand. Laughing is a good sign. Eating the cookie is a better one, especially when he eats it slowly instead of the way Tundra chomps down on bones, so this isn’t rage-angry, this is… shit, this is sad-angry. 

“What happened?” he asks, reaching into the box his mom sent from home for a sugar cookie. No, not that one, it doesn’t have enough sprinkles. Or that one, it… wait, Hamish likes icing, not sprinkles, get back here! “Here.”

“Thanks,” Hamish sighs, nibbling the edge of the cookie. “When did these get here?”

“An hour ago.”

“How many have you eaten?”

“This is my box, yours is upstairs.”

“Why is it -”

“I was hiding them from myself. Now please stop deflecting and tell me what’s wrong or tell me what I can do to make you feel better.”

Hamish raises his eyebrows at him. 

  
Randall raises his back. 

“I love you but I hate you,” Hamish grumbles. “That was my parents.”

Oh. 

Oh shit. 

Randall has never met Hamish’s parents, but that’s a good thing because if he ever did, Greybeard would eat them. Just… eat them. Two bites, gone. Because Hamish’s parents have never appreciated Hamish. He’s the youngest of four by an eight year gap, so presumably he was a surprise baby, but here’s the thing - Hamish spent most of his first interactions with Randall’s parents wobbling between baffled and amazed, which broke Randall’s heart because it shouldn’t be surprising to someone when parents do things like hug their son, or make his favorite dinner, or try to drag him to the mall to see if he needs new clothes or shoes or anything. And the second time they visited over the summer, when they did all that stuff for Hamish, Randall thought Hamish was going to implode from emotional overload. It’s taken a year for him to get used to it. Granted Carpios are a particularly affectionate bunch, but still. Hamish said he couldn’t remember the last time he got a birthday card from someone, and that’s not right. 

So Randall has to assume that Hamish’s parents probably didn’t hug him a lot as a kid. They never call on his birthday or holidays. Maybe they were just too busy with their other three kids and they thought throwing money at him would make up for spending time with him, but it didn’t. 

“What did they want?” Randall asks as calmly as he can when Greybeard is sharpening his claws.

Hamish rolls onto his side and reaches over Randall for another cookie - chocolate chip, excellent choice - which he breaks in half, holding one piece out to Randall. “Two months ago, I got an email from my parents that they were thinking about coming into town for New Year’s and that they made lunch reservations for the whole family. I called them immediately and told them I had plans with my boyfriend for New Year’s.”

“Do we have plans for New Year’s?” Randall asks around a mouthful of cookie. 

“You’re going to be mildly hungover, and I’m going to be laughing my ass off.”

“Oh, so same as every year. Awesome.” 

Hamish laughs, quiet but genuine. “Anyway, they called me today and said they came into town early and want to meet you."

"Two months later?" Randall scoffs.

"That's my parents for you."

Well, Greybeard is psyched. Gross anatomy has given him so many new ideas and inspiration for tearing people apart. Randall almost hates to ruin his fun but, “I think I’m going to be really sick on Saturday.”

“Damn,” Hamish deadpans. “Stomach flu?”

“Bad sushi,” Randall corrects, rolling onto his side, too. “Also, wanna get sushi for dinner on Friday?”

Hamish grins. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. And I’m sorry your parents are assholes.”

“Thanks.”

“Want another cookie?”

“Yeah, what is that one?”

“Oh, that is peanut butter and marshmallow, and you can’t have it. Those you have to eat out of your own box.”

“Wow,” Hamish breathes, “we finally hit your limit.”

Randall nods gravely. 

“Peanut butter and marshmallow, huh?”

He continues to nod. 

“What if we split one and I give you -”

“No.”

“Randall, it’s-”

“Respect my limits, Hamish.”

Why is that funny? Why is Hamish laughing so hard at that? You know what, doesn’t matter. A laughing Hamish is probably not a sad Hamish, so his work here is done and his favorite cookies are safe. Well, this one isn't. This one is getting eaten.

And that one over there is getting stolen, “Hell no, you don’t!”

He lunges for the cookie but Hamish leans back, holding it up and out from under the table so Randall has to crawl over him to try to get it and there really isn’t enough room under the table for these kinds of shenanigans. This is a sacred study space and Randall invited him down here out of the goodness of his heart and now he’s stealing cookies. He should have seen this coming, but no. Randall is a sucker for sad, pretty men, and Hamish knows this. 

He glares down at Hamish. “You don’t even like marshmallows.”

“Yes I do.”

“I have never seen you eat a marshmallow!”

“Maybe I like them with peanut butter.”

“If you don’t like them on their own, you won’t like them with peanut butter!”

“That’s not necessarily true.”

Randall sits up as high as he can, which is not very. “How much do you want to bet?”

“Hmm,” Hamish thinks, putting the cookie between his teeth so he can grab onto Randall’s hips. “What about-”

“Hang on, I can’t take you seriously like that.” Randall takes the cookie out of his mouth and holds it for him. “Go on.”

“Thanks, baby. What kind of bet are you thinking?”

“Considering I’m going to win?” Randall shrugs. “Whatever kind of bet you want, _baby_.”

Hamish’s eyes light up. This … might be a miscalculation. 

“How about… the winner gets blow jobs every day for a week?”

Randall can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him. “What a hardship..."

“Deal?”

“Yeah, OK,” Randall agrees, holding the cookie in front of Hamish’s mouth. “Deal.”

Hamish smirks and sits up to take a bite right out of Randall’s hand. (Hamish is so cute sometimes. He is wrong, but he's cute.) He chews slowly and Randall watches his expression shift from neutral to curious to… surprised to… OK, there’s really no loser as far as this bet is concerned but there is obviously a winner and it’s not Randall. 

Hamish takes another bite of the cookie and mumbles, “These are really good.”

“No!” Randall groans. “You’re lying!”  
  


Hamish grabs another cookie from the box and sticks it in Randall’s mouth. “Here’s the thing. I don’t like marshmallows in their natural form, but I like the stuff in a jar, and once you heat them up, that’s basically what they turn into. Hence, I love these cookies and I promise to replace the one I just ate but, more importantly, I win.”

Randall rolls his eyes. At least he has a cookie. And Hamish always reciprocates. This is going to be a good week. 

“Why is the stuff in a jar better?” Randall asks, stretching out on top of Hamish and resting his chin on his chest. 

“Texture thing, I guess.” He folds his arm under his head. “Maybe I just like everything your mom makes. Be honest with me, is there anything she can’t bake or cook?”

“Anything she makes in a frying pan gets a little burnt, but that’s it.”

“You’re really lucky.”

Randall pokes him on the nose. “You’re their favorite, you know.” 

“I know,” he says easily, smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t understand why my parents are suddenly so interested in what’s happening in my life.”

“Maybe they feel bad for being shitty parents?”

He scoffs as he wraps his arms around Randall. “You’re way too nice sometimes.”

“Greybeard wants to use their bodies for practical study application.”

“I said you, not Greybeard, but that’s not a terrible idea.”

“He just hates cadavers because formaldehyde makes him sneeze.” He grins watching Hamish’s head tip back as he laughs. “Have you ever felt Tundra sneeze? I thought I was having a heart attack…”

Hamish shakes his head, laughter dying down into quiet chuckles, and rolls them onto their sides. “You two are such a mess.”

“Your mess,” Randall reminds him. “And Tundra’s.”

“True.” He presses a quick kiss to Randall’s lips. “Weren’t we also promised tiny cakes?”

“Those are hiding in our room with your cookies.”

“It’s not… forget it. Let’s go check those out and then I have to go get a new phone.”

“Hey.” Randall gives him a slower, harder kiss. “I know it’s not the same, but we can share my parents and we have those five disasters that live upstairs. We’re your family, too. We think you’re awesome and we love you to the moon and back a million times over.

“And if you change your mind about seeing your family for whatever reason,” Greybeard cannot believe Randall is about to say this but, dude, chill, “I will be there.”

Hamish smiles. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

* * *

After stuffing Hamish with tiny cakes and taking back the cookies he’s owed, they go to the closest outdoor mall and Randall leaves Hamish to acquire a new phone in favor of wandering because that place is _packed_ with parents trying to get their kids the latest iPhone and Randall can’t sit still that long. So he promised Hamish he’d be back in twenty minutes to make sure he hasn’t been trampled by desperate soccer moms or to rescue him from conversations with well-meaning but ill-intentioned frazzled mothers looking for polished, suave Christmas dates for their daughters. Or sons or those who identify as both or neither, but that doesn’t happen nearly as often. 

Most of the stores are too crowded for Randall to bother braving, but there’s a Starbucks at the corner and Hamish always appreciates random coffee surprises. Plus Hamish turns into a gremlin if he has too much sugar, werewolf metabolism be damned, so he definitely needs something to soak all that up. Shit, maybe he shouldn’t have left him. OK, coffee, and straight back to make sure Hamish doesn’t just march into the back of the store, grab a phone, check himself out because how hard can it be to work a register, and leave. 

The door of the shop right in front of him flies open and nearly smacks him in the face. 

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry!” the guy who nearly killed Randall wheezes. “I’m so sorry! I’m just, I was picking up my wedding bands, and I, ugh, you don’t care, I was -”

“Dude, it’s fine,” Randall laughs. “I’m good.”

He sags with relief and waves as he walks off. “Merry Christmas!”

  
“You, too,” Randall waves. “And congrats!”  
  


The guy lights up brighter than the tree at the center of the shopping plaza and practically skips away. It’s adorable.

Randall glances through the window of the jewelry store and snaps a photo of a particularly massive diamond ring to send to Jack. 

_For Alyssa. Ur welcome._

The reply is almost instant, _Not her style but Hamish loves shiny things_ and a winky face emoji.

Randall laughs, but… would he…? Would Hamish… 

No. No, they’re already practically married. And they're werewolf-married. They don’t need to do the whole getting down on one knee while it’s snowing and everything’s glowing from the string lights and…

But Hamish said they’d do it for real some day. The night they almost bonded. He hasn’t brought it up since, but he… he probably still wants to, right? Or did he realize they’re basically married anyway and they don’t need rings and a ceremony and a piece of paper to legitimize their relationship? Because that’s what marriage is… right? 

And Christmas proposals are lame. So lame. It’s… it’s a cop out. Totally piggybacking off another major holiday. And the lights and the decorations. Right. Yeah. That would be… so unoriginal. Hamish wouldn’t… 

Except… it’s supposed to snow like crazy on Christmas eve. Hamish loves snow. He likes to sit outside with a mug of something hot to drink and watch it come down from the sky. He likes how it makes everything quiet, how everything looks so clean and fresh. He told Randall he likes the way it sparkles when the light hits it just right. 

He could ask him on the front porch. He could… have the ring in his pocket and take it out while Hamish’s eyes are glued to the scenery and when he finally looks over, Randall can ask him. 

What would he even say, though? He can’t just ask Hamish to marry him, Hamish needs… Hamish deserves a speech. A freaking sonnet or something. Randall’s not good at words. But maybe he could… maybe if it’s snowing and they’re cozy on the front porch and everything is quiet and still and pristine, maybe… is it enough to just say, “I love you and I want to spend the rest of our lives together, will you marry me?” if everything else is perfect?

It wouldn’t hurt to look. Right? Just… just to see if they even have anything Hamish would like. That Hamish deserves. 

The bell over the doorway jingles as he steps inside, and the girl behind the counter smiles at him. “Hi there. Anything I can help you find?”

“Just, uh,” he clears his throat, hoping he’ll sound more like he knows what the hell he’s doing as he goes on, “rings? For men? Men’s rings. Just… looking for men’s rings. For one man. One ring. I mean, a ring for a man. My... man..”

So obviously clearing his throat worked. Great.

The girl’s smile softens. “All the rings are in the back corner. Take a look and I’ll be over in a sec to check on you. Sound good?”

Oh, thank god, she speaks idiot!

Randall nods, smiling in what he hopes is a grateful and not terrified way, and wanders to the back corner as indicated. You probably wouldn’t be able to see someone looking around back here from the front of the store. Private, smart, _and_ sneaky. Hamish would love this place. 

The women’s rings sparkle inside the case, some of them literally covered in diamonds, some of them rocking a single, perfect stone. He’s surprised some of the men’s rings are just as sparkly, but he doesn’t pay them too much attention because Hamish likes shiny things, yes, but he would never wear something that extravagant. He goes for high quality over high visibility. He likes to look good and put together, but he’s not ostentatious. Hence, the dude owns an apartment building and never told anyone. He’s more… discrete. Classic. He likes things people don’t notice right away, hints and clues that you’d have to factor into his entire carefully constructed persona, his stance, the way he sits - lounging like a king in his throne, tucked into a corner like a spy, perched on the edge of his seat with interest -, the shadows or gleam in his eyes to even come close to the man that is Hamish Duke.

So… simple. No. Not simple. Just… something with little details. Something with tiny stones, or a design. Something platinum, that’s the best one, right? Or at least silver or white gold or whatever because Hamish looks better in grey than gold. Not that he looks bad in gold. Hamish looks good in everything. 

His eyes land on a silver looking metal band with some kind of brushed metallic-looking pattern and rose gold around the edges. He forgot about rose gold, but looking at it now, it would look really good on Hamish. Just enough gleam to make it shine, but understated. Tiny little details no one else would notice right away, but Hamish would. 

The girl clears her throat quietly. “We just started carrying cobalt chrome rings last year. They look the most like white gold but they’re a lot more durable. Lighter than platinum but still enough weight to remind your man that he’s got someone at home waiting for him.”

Hamish doesn’t need that. There’s a scar in the shape of Randall’s teeth on his neck for that. Well, mostly Randall’s neck, but still. He likes knowing Randall’s there, likes feeling him. Like how first thing in the morning, he buries his face in Randall’s neck and takes a long, deep breath of him, or how he finds ways to touch Randall all the time. So he’d… he’d probably like something a little heavier. Like this ring. Hamish would appreciate feeling it. 

“This one,” she goes on, “has a Gibeon Meteorite inlay and fourteen karat rose gold edges.”

“Like an actual meteorite?” 

“Absolutely, and since it’s a rare and naturally occurring material, even if you make rings from the same meteorite, each of them will be unique. Now it _is_ on the pricey side and it doesn’t get along with water, but it comes with a lifetime warranty if something should happen to it.”

That’s a bummer since Randall is very Team Beach Honeymoon, but Hamish wouldn’t wear anything that special on the beach anyway. He’d be too cognizant of the potential to lose it. Even taking off his watch has become something of a ritual before wolfing out or getting his hands dirty for a ritual or any other number of things. So that’s really not so bad. Especially because no one in the world will have the same ring as Hamish. It would be his, just his. 

Her hand hovers over the case. “Would you like a closer look?”

He must nod because she kneels to unlock the case and extracts the ring, setting it carefully down in front of him. 

It’s just like she said, a little heavier than he expected, but not unpleasantly so. And the rose gold is so soft compared to the rough, harsh lines of the meteorite, it’s… it’s perfect. 

“If I get back to you on the size tomorrow,” Randall breathes, “how long would it take before it’s ready?”

“We have a few sizes in stock now, but if we have to order it, it would take a few weeks.”

He doesn’t want to give it back, like if he hands it back to the girl, the spell will break and he’ll lose his nerve, but he does. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she says. “He’s a lucky guy.”

“Nah,” Randall chuckles. “I’m the lucky one.”

He glances at the ring one more time, tapping the glass, and forces himself back to his quest for coffee. 

He gets halfway to Starbucks before he realizes, holy shit, he is going to marry Hamish Duke. 


	2. In which Randall has lots of feelings and his friends are still the best/worst...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys ... we have holiday smut :D If you'd like to skip it, just stop reading when Hamish and Randall start re-watching the movie and pick it up at "He's going to be..." (Sorry that's vague but it's cute and I don't wanna spoil it)
> 
> Also, this is a LOOOONG chapter. I don't know why. It just is. Could I have broken it up? Sure. Did I want to? Not really. It's the holidays. I'm treating myself. 
> 
> Hope everyone is doing well and hanging in there as best as you can!

One small Americano, two pretzels, and a shiny new iPhone later, Randall finds himself on the couch at the Den with an armful of Hamish while he and their friends watch… something? He’s not paying attention. He’s too busy thinking about the ring. How it’ll look on Hamish’s finger. How it will feel against his skin when Randall holds his hand. If it’ll look half as beautiful when it catches the light as Hamish’s face does in the glow of the multicolored lights on their tree. 

Popcorn hits him in the face, prompting him to look up at Gabrielle. “What?”

“You’re not snacking,” she notes, suspicion lacing her tone just enough to counter the concern in her eyes, “and you haven’t said a single thing about mean they’re being to the weird sister.”

Hamish glances up at him. “What’s wrong?”

Shit, shit shit…

“Just tired,” he lies, settling deeper into the corner of the couch and pulling Hamish tighter against him. “And she’s not that weird.”

Hamish frowns at him.

“I’m fine,” he insists. 

His phone buzzes with a text from Gabrielle. 

_Are you mad at him or proposing to him?_

He makes sure Hamish’s focus is back on the movie and replies, _just tired_ before pointedly dropping his phone on the table, shooting her a glare to indicate this conversation is over.

He waits for her to get mad but she just smiles and taps Lilith’s shoulder. 

Oh no.

She shows Lilith the text, and then Nicole.

No, no, no!

Lilith’s mouth drops open and her hand flies to cover it, eyes darting up to meet Randall’s. Then Alyssa notices the commotion and narrows her eyes questioningly, so Gabrielle passes her the phone and, shit, is she crying?

Oh sweet Jesus…

Alyssa shows the phone to Jack, who blurts out, “Holy shit!”  
  


“What?” Hamish asks sharply.

Randall glares at Jack and mouths, “Do not fuck this up for me, Morton, I swear to fucking god…”

Jack squints at Randall’s lips. 

Hamish sits up and turns to look at Randall. “What is going on with you guys?”

Jack Morton must die, that’s what’s going on, but Randall can’t say that because Hamish will ask why and he’ll have to say because he’s fucking up his surprise proposal and then it won’t be a surprise anymore and he doesn’t even have the ring yet and-

“Randall is trying to find out what you got him for Christmas,” Gabrielle complains, rolling her eyes, “and I told him it was a remote controlled vibrating plug, and since Morton’s never met his prostate, he’s horrified when he really should be asking Alyssa why she never -”

“Enough!” Jack cuts in. “Please don’t finish that sentence!”

Does Randall love Gabrielle or hate Gabrielle? 

Hamish gives them a long, assessing look before finally rolling his eyes. “You guys are idiots.”

He loves Gabrielle. 

“Not a horrible idea, though,” Hamish mumbles under his breath.

And now he’s questioning it again because that could be awesome but that is way, way too much power in the hands of a madman like Hamish. 

Still, he mouths, “Thank you,” at Gabby and waves his middle finger at Jack and tries to focus on the movie. But they keep smiling at him. And Randall keeps feeling himself smile back. 

“I’m getting some water,” Alyssa says quickly, sniffling. “I’ll be right back.”

Jack rushes after her and after that little slip, there’s no way in hell Randall is letting him out of his sight.

He pats Hamish’s shoulder. “I’m going to get some, too. You want anything?”

He shakes his head and sits up so Randall can slide out from behind him. 

Randall slinks into the kitchen and pushes Jack, who is in the middle of consoling an emotional Alyssa, hard on the shoulder. 

“Ow!”

“Shh,” he hisses, patting Alyssa on the head. “Please stop crying! Hamish is going to smell your feelings and come in here any second to see what’s going on.” 

“I can’t!” she whispers, blowing her nose into a napkin. 

Jack takes her back into his arms and whispers to Randall, “Are you seriously going to-”

“Yes!” Randall grabs another napkin for Alyssa. “Yes, I really am, and I need you two to get your shit together because I don’t even have the ring yet and everything has to be perfect!”

“Relax,” Jack says placatingly over Alyssa’s head, “he won’t find out from me, I promise.”

Alyssa looks up from where she’s been crying on Jack’s chest. “I’m really, really happy for you.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles, turning the hug into an Alyssa sandwich. “I love you both, now please get it together or leave.”

He gives them both one more squeeze before returning to the living room. No, before _grabbing a glass of water_ and then returning to the living room. Whew. Getting engaged is hard. 

Hamish sits up again so Randall can take back his spot. One of them is always in the corner of the couch with the other one sprawled back against them. It’s the most effective method of cuddling. If you’re the one getting cuddled, you get arms _and_ legs wrapped around you, a muscular chest as a pillow and, if you’re Hamish, you get hair pets. If you’re Randall, you get hand massages. If you’re the cuddler, you basically get a human blanket. Win-win. 

“Is Alyssa OK?” Hamish asks him quietly. 

“Yeah, she and Jack had a fight earlier,” Randall lies. “They’re fine now.”

“A fight over a vibrating anal plug…?”

“No!” He winces. “I think they had a fight about their Christmas plans or something.”

Alyssa and Jack might have worked out most of their issues but they still squabble enough that Hamish seems to accept Randall’s explanation, tilting his head up to squint at Randall. “Stop trying to guess your Christmas present. You’ll never figure it out.”

“Can I have a hint?”

“It’s too big to wrap.”

“What about a bow?” 

It’s not getting wrapped because Randall rented a cabin in the mountains a few hours upstate for a long weekend. They don’t have any overlapping free time until March, which sucks, but it will be a nice break for them. And an engagement ring, but that’s separate. 

“A bow might work,” Hamish concedes, leaning in. “And now this conversation is over.”

“What conversation?” Randall asks innocently. 

“Uh-huh,” Hamish grunts with a light kiss. 

Jack and Alyssa return but instead of sitting back down, Jack calls across the room, “We’re calling it a night. See you guys in the morning.”

“Night,” Randall waves. “Glad you kids made up… again.”

Jack gets that scrunchy confused look but Alyssa catches on and smiles. “Thanks, Randall.”

With Jack gone, Randall is left surrounded by people who can actually keep a secret or have no idea what’s going on. Actually, Randall sort of falls into that second category because he thought this movie was a romcom but everyone on the TV is crying. Did someone cheat? Is someone getting divorce? Is there an evil ex or a long lost sibling?

Once the movie ends and the credits start rolling, the girls head upstairs, huddled together and whispering and glancing back at Randall as they go. If he goes upstairs now, he’s going to get ambushed and he just doesn’t feel like dealing with all that.

Hamish starts to get up but Randall holds onto him. “I missed that entire thing, was it any good?”

“It was OK.”

“Do you like it enough to start it over and watch it with me?”

“Not really.”

Damnit. Wait, “Do you like _me_ enough to start it over and watch it with me?”

“... fine,” Hamish sighs. 

Randall kisses his cheek. “Thanks, babe.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, passing Randall the remote and turning off all the lights except the ones on the Christmas tree with a flick of his fingers.

Randall beats him to the locks, but the back door doesn’t click. “I never get that one.”

“It sticks,” Hamish commiserates, waving his hand until the lock turns over. 

Randall smiles to himself and turns his attention to the movie. For ten minutes because he makes the mistake of glancing down at Hamish and noticing how the blinking, multicolored lights on their tree light up his face and accentuate the angles of his face. A kaleidoscope of colors flash across his features as he watches the movie, fingers tracing absentminded shapes over Randall’s arm, completely oblivious to the silhouette he strikes against the lights.

He traces the glow on Hamish’s face, fingers ghosting over smooth skin and light stubble, warm lips that pull into a smile at the touch. He feels Hamish swallow as he follows it down his neck, sliding his finger down to hook in the collar of his shirt. 

“Can I take this off?” he asks quietly.

Hamish’s smile sharpens as he nods, sitting up and shifting till he’s facing Randall, straddling his lap, and Randall bites back a grin of his own as he grabs the hem of Hamish’s shirt and rucks it up to expose miles and miles of perfect skin and muscle. 

Randall kisses him, just a quick peck to his lips, or he means it to be but Hamish grabs his face and holds him there and it turns into something much, much deeper and slower. He drops the shirt on the floor and traces the lights here, too, mapping the colors with his hands up Hamish’s stomach and chest, smoothing over every twitch and shudder. He drags himself away from his mouth to kiss his neck, to brush his lips over the scar he left there - _mineminemine_ \- and lick into the hollow of his throat. He feels Hamish’s breath catch, hears his pulse kick up a notch, and presses a kiss between his collarbones, and then another to the center of his chest. 

He licks over Hamish’s nipple and the fingers in his hair tighten almost painfully in their grip, not pulling, not pushing away, just holding him there, so he does it again and this time a shudder wracks Hamish’s body, curling around him and sucking in a loud breath through his teeth. 

“I think,” Hamish bites out, “you owe me something from our bet earlier.”

Randall hums like he’s trying to remember what Hamish could possibly be referring to and reaches down Hamish’s pants to palm his dick - Hamish growls under his breath, it’s very gratifying -, “Bet? What bet? Did we… oh, you mean when I was nice to you and you took advantage of my love to steal my snacks and turn me into your sex slave for a week?”

Hamish closes his eyes and tips his head back. “So dramatic...”

Hamish is more than halfway to completely hard now, so Randall pulls him out and strokes him the rest of the way there. He kisses the corner of Hamish’s mouth, along his jaw, makes a quick detour to nibble on his ear, grinning when Hamish’s hips jerk into his fist at the contact. He’s probably painfully hard in Randall’s hand, maybe even leaking already. He swipes his thumb over his slit to test his theory and hums happily against Hamish’s neck when he’s right.

He slinks down to kneel on the floor between Hamish’s legs and glances up to make sure he’s watching as he leans in to lick a stripe all the way up his dick - his own dick is getting increasingly interested in the proceedings, particularly when Hamish’s eyes go from glazed over to blazing with pure want - and lap up the precum before closing his mouth over the head and sinking down.

The fingers in his hair spasm as Hamish lets out an obscene groan, all breathy and shuddery and like he’s wrecked already. His hips twitch just hard enough that Randall thinks he’ll need help not fucking his mouth - wait, why doesn’t he want that… never mind, another time - and smooths his hands up Hamish’s thighs to hold his hips in place while he bobs his head. He manages to get him deeper and deeper, pausing when his gag reflex needs some convincing. Hamish’s strangled moan registers in his ears and he lets himself preen for three seconds before focusing on the task at hand. Well, technically the task at mouth… or would it be the task at throat...? Whatever. The point is, he’s going to deepthroat Hamish and suck his brain out through his dick. 

Hamish’s breathing gets considerably louder and harder and faster every time he hits the back of Randall’s throat (Randall mentioned he takes dick like a champ, right? Yeah? Cool. Just checking). Swallowing makes him growl, swirling his tongue makes him hiss through his teeth, sucking gets him an almost pained groan, and - since this is all getting Randall achingly hard - moaning around him makes Hamish growl out, “Upstairs. Now.”

Randall pulls off with a pop and starts to ask Hamish why he doesn’t want to come now, but he sort of just croaks at first and has to clear his throat - Hamish’s head falls back against the couch with a, “Jesus…” -, and _now_ he can rasp out, “Everything OK?”

“Perfect,” Hamish presses his thumb to Randall’s bottom lip, “but I really want to fuck you.”

What a coincidence, Randall wants that, too. 

He grabs Hamish’s shirt off the floor as he stands, making a show of licking his lips as he pulls Hamish from the couch to their bedroom.

Hamish’s sprawl across the bed would be casual if it wasn’t for his hard on and the dark, hungry look in his eyes as he waves the door closed behind him. It sets Randall’s skin on fire, makes his head spin when Hamish looks at him like that. 

He pulls his shirt over his head with one hand and tosses it aside. Hamish’s fingers twitch as his eyes rake down his body and Randall feels the blush spreading from his face to his chest because no one’s ever looked at him the way Hamish looks at him. No one’s ever made him feel the way Hamish does either, though. No one’s ever loved him or wanted him quite like this. 

Hamish’s head tilts. “Randall?”

He shakes himself. “Just enjoying the view.”

“You should see mine,” he murmurs, but his brow furrows. “You’re sure you’re OK? ”

Randall nods and unties the string at the waistband of his sweatpants so they’ll slide down his hips of their own accord as he crosses the room and steps into the space between Hamish’s legs, resting his hands on Hamish’s shoulders. 

“I’m great,” he whispers. “I just want you a lot.”

He lets Hamish pull him down and press him onto his back, bringing his knees up to bracket his hips as Hamish drops onto his elbows. He presses a light kiss to Ranall’s lips before nuzzling across his jaw to drag his lips down his neck. His teeth graze Randall’s skin and he tips his head back, hoping Hamish takes a hint, that he won’t make Randall ask or beg, that he’ll just suck a bruise onto his throat so hard he chokes on his own breath, _yes_ , exactly, shit. And Hamish thrusts against him shallowly, teasingly, but it’s enough to send every drop of blood in Randall’s body rushing south. 

He sits up and takes Randall’s hands in his to bring them to his lips. The kisses are soft, so, so gentle and light. Reverent, almost, like Randall’s hands are the most precious thing in the world to him. He turns them over and kisses the inside of his wrists, rubs his cheek over his palm. And Hamish tries to smirk, Randall thinks, but it’s too soft. Even when he bites at Randall’s fingertips, he soothes it immediately with his tongue, with a final kiss to the pad of each of his fingers before he lowers Randall’s hands down to the mattress. He strokes down his arms to drag the barest hint of claws down his chest, his stomach, all the way down to the waistband of his pants.

Randall lift his hips so Hamish can pull them down and off and drop them onto the floor. “Yours, too.”

Hamish smiles at him and removes the offending clothing, throwing them onto the floor before draping himself back over Randall, dropping one fast, light kiss to his lips after another, always pulling away before Randall can make them harder, deeper, slower. And Hamish’s hands curl around his wrists and gently pull because Randall doesn’t have to keep them there tonight, he can touch him, why the hell isn’t he touching him? 

He grabs Hamish by the back of his neck and pulls him down to seal their mouths together. He waits for Hamish to pull back, to push him back down on the bed and make him wait or ask or beg, but Hamish gives as good as he gets, biting Randall’s lip and sucking on his tongue. He wraps one of his legs around Hamish, digging his heel into the small of his back to make him move faster against him, mouth falling open at the friction, at the hard, heavy heat of Hamish’s dick dragging against his. He could come like this, he could come like this so fucking easily. 

Randall snatches the lube off the bedside table - they don’t bother putting it away anymore, they use it all the damn time - and pushes it into Hamish’s hand. 

“That was quick,” Hamish mumbles between the parting of their lips, his tone just a touch too smug for Randall’s liking, even in his so-turned-on-it-hurts state. 

He tangles his fingers in Hamish’s hair and angles his head so he can get his mouth on Hamish’s bonding scar and bite down on it. Hard. Because even though they’ve healed, the bond marks are… well, sensitive enough that it makes Hamish gasp out his name, shuddery and shaky, and the sound of it sends a spike of heat and want and _yesminesayitagainmineminemine_ up his spine so he presses his mouth to it, sucking hard and he remembers the taste of Hamish’s blood, the whispered promises, the impossible frost hanging in the air around him, completely at odds with the hot skin under his tongue, against his body, the fire pooling in his gut as Hamish’s finger dips inside of him. 

He licks over the scar one more time and presses his lips to Hamish’s ear. “Too fast?”

Hamish growls out a breathless laugh and leans down till their foreheads touch. “Brat.”

“Tease.”

“Menace.”

Randall’s about to pop off with a retort but Hamish is nailing his prostate with every move of his hand so what actually comes out is, “You drive me _fucking_ crazy, Hamish…”

“That’s not an insult.”

“Not to you,” Randall pants, tilting his chip up to kiss him. “I love you anyway.”

“I love you, too,” Hamish whispers.

He moves like he’s going to duck down, probably to do something evil and amazing like give him more hickies, but Randall holds him there. “Stay. I wanna kiss you the whole time.”

Hamish nods almost imperceptibly and their faces are so close that the movement technically counts as a kiss in and of itself. A barely-there kiss, and he must realize that’s not what Randall wanted because he gives him a real kiss, soft and gentle. And another, just as sweet, just as slow, and his lips barely leave Randall’s the whole time he opens him up. One kiss becomes another and another and another and a second finger joins the first inside of him. For every lick of pleasure lighting him up from the inside, he gives Hamish another bitten out moan, mewls out a whimper, finally chokes out, “I want you, I’m good.”

The moment Hamish pushes inside of him, all the way in, hips flush against Randall’s, the kisses get messy. Messy from the movement, from Hamish rocking in and out him and reaching down to hook Randall’s leg over his arm and then messier from Randall’s mouth going slack at the fullness, at the syrupy slow pace that has him panting into Hamish’s mouth, dragging his lips greedily over whatever skin he can reach and licking at his lips. And Hamish stares down at him through heavy lidded eyes, blazing with want and something close to wonder, presses his mouth to Randall’s but they’re really just breathing against each other at this point, stealing bitten out praises - “You feel so good,” and “Right there, do that again,” and, “Fuck, _yes_ ,” and “Just like that, don’t stop” - that dissolve into less and less coherent monosyllabic gasps and groans and and moans and grunts. 

Randall slides his hand back into Hamish’s hair when he feels himself getting closer and closer, presses his forehead harder against Hamish’s and he doesn’t know why the thought strikes him now, that he’s going to spend the rest of his life with this man, but it does. He almost says it. Almost whispers into Hamish’s ear, “I’m going to marry you,” and “However long we get, it’ll be the rest of my life,” and “You’re mine forever.” 

His lips tingle when he crashes their mouths together, swollen and maybe even bruised at this point, but Hamish kisses him back and reaches down between them to get Randall off, but he doesn’t need it. He grabs Hamish’s hand and presses it over the scar on his chest, on his own bond mark and the slightest, barest prick of claws against it is all it takes to tip him over the edge. And Hamish kisses him through that, too, through the aftershocks, through his own stuttering rhythm as he spills deep inside of him. 

He holds Hamish like that for a long time, walking his fingers down the valley between his shoulder blades, tracing up and down his spine, shivering when Hamish’s breath hits his sweaty skin. Hamish must feel bad about that because he nuzzless over Randall’s collarbones, up his neck, and it’s adorable but also ridiculous so by the time he gets to the tip of Randall’s nose, he’s laughing. Which obviously just eggs Hamish on and the wolves are probably having a field day, but Randall has to grab Hamish’s face to hold him still and kiss him. Well, sort of kiss him because his lips are still close to numb. Maybe that’s why Hamish went the face-rubbing route, but Randall likes kissing him. He likes it so much he’s going to spend the rest of his life kissing him. He’s going to be Hamish Duke’s husband. Randall Carpio-Duke. Or Randall Duke-Carpio. Maybe he’ll just be Randall Duke. Or Hamish can be Hamish Carpio. Maybe they won’t change their names at all, maybe they’ll just wear rings and scars and people will try to talk Hamish up, flirt with him, buy him drinks, and Hamish will pointedly drum his fingers and say, “I’m just waiting for my husband,” or “Thank you, but I’m married,” or “Oh, there you are, baby. So-and-So, this is my husband, Randall. Randall, this is So-and-So, they were just leaving.” 

Hamish pulls the blankets up around them. “You’re going marshmallow-mode on me.”

“Mhmm,” he says, burrowing closer. “I’m just really happy and stuff.”

  
“Me, too,” he murmurs, stroking Randall’s cheek. “I’ll be busy most of the day tomorrow, but I was thinking we could grab dinner and go check out the Christmas lights at the botanical garden.”

Randall smiles. “It’s a date.”

“How many of those do we have left?”

“A lot.”

“Really? It seems like I’ve taken you on a lot of dates.”

“You haven’t.”

“I haven’t?”

Randall struggles to keep a straight face as he shakes his head. 

“What exactly qualifies as a ‘date’ to you?”

Um… “Anytime we go somewhere or do something just the two of us?”

“Then how-”

“Hamish, I’m in medical school and I’m a warwolf-” 

“Werelock.”

“- and it’s really hard and I’m stressed and you can’t expect me to keep tr - mmph!”

* * *

It never takes Hamish long to fall asleep if they go for round twos - or threes … or fours, that was one hell of a night but super healing or not, Randall could barely get out of bed in the morning so that’s a special occasion thing now - , but just in case, Randall waits a full hour before he cuts a strip of fabric off the edge of the sheet with Graybear’s claw and gingerly wraps it around Hamish’s finger. He slices off the excess and tucks the fabric, which is now the perfect length to measure so Randall can figure out what size ring he’s getting Hamish, into the nightstand. A ring with their initials engraved on the inside, _R & H _. A ring that no one else in the world will have except Hamish. 

Well, if he says yes. Which is… not a good place for your brain to go right after you stealth measure your boyfriend’s finger for an engagement ring. But he’ll probably say yes. Even if Randall screws up the proposal, Hamish loves him, but Randall can _not_ screw up this proposal. After everything they’ve been through together and for each other, this has to be… 

There are moments when the world stops, when you can feel the universe shifting and growing and moving around you but your world? Your life? It just… stops. Freezes. That’s what it felt like when Hamish told him he loved him. That’s what this needs to feel like, and he has no idea how to make that happen again, not because the feelings aren’t there or aren’t as strong - Randall doesn’t think he’ll ever love Hamish with anything less than the intensity of a million burning suns -, but because it’s all so natural now. This is just their life now, and he loves it, but how do you make time stand still when every time you look at someone, they’re the only thing in the world you see? 

Hamish’s nose twitches, which means Randall is about to set off Tundra’s RANDALL IS EXPERIENCING COMPLEX/EXTREME EMOTIONS, FIX IT! alarm, so he shuts down those thoughts and pretends to be sleeping. Not that Tundra won’t know he’s pretending. Or Hamish if he wakes up. 

He doesn’t though. At least not completely. He just tightens his hold around Randall and pulls him closer. 

“You OK?” he breathes. 

Randall nods then remembers he’s facing away from Hamish and Hamish’s eyes are still probably closed, so he whispers, “Just a weird dream. Go back to sleep.”

Lips brush over the back of his neck. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Hamish.”

* * *

Randall wakes up several hours later with a post-it note stuck to his phone: _Look on the windowsill -H_

What if he doesn’t, though? How would Hamish know if he doesn’t roll all the way onto his side of the bed to lean over and find a single bright red rose. 

And another note: _Love you -H_

Maybe Randall could propose to Hamish with post-it notes. He could send him on a whole little scavenger hunt. That would be cute and memorable. That would also be a lot of work, though, and Randall’s barely holding it together as it is. 

He texts Hamish, _youre amazing and i love you and let me know if you need help w anything today pls_

The response is almost immediate, _All good here. Just very, very boring and now Vera is glaring at me so I have to go._

He smiles and tucks the notes into his drawer with the others before carefully snatching the rose off the window. It’s late enough in the morning that his parents are most likely awake and not working yet, so he figures he should call them and give them the news. _Then_ he can go face the Knights+2 and listen to their horrible proposal ideas because, as much as he loves them, they’re so not helpful sometimes. 

His mom answers on the second ring, but it’s his dad’s voice who greets him, “Who is this and why are you calling my wife?”

“Dad,” Randall groans, rolling his eyes, “you’re not funny.”

“Your mom thinks I’m hilarious.”

“No, I don’t,” she calls from the background. “Put him on speaker, Joe.”

“OK, buddy, you’re on speaker, no more bad-talking your mom.”

How can Randall forget how extra his parents are? Geez. Maybe he should have braved his friends first. 

He twirls the rose over his head, taking a deep breath of the sweet, floral scent. “I have big news.”

“Oh yeah?” his mom chuckles. “Good new or bad news?”

“I’m going to ask Hamish to marry me on Christmas eve.”

There’s a long beat of silence. 

“That is,” his dad clears his throat and Randall wonders if he’s tearing up, “that is the best thing I’ve heard all year.”

“All my life,” his mom counters, voice warm and quiet. “Honey, I’m so happy for you.”

  
And now Randall is getting choked up, isn’t this rose stunning? It’s probably the most perfect rose in existence. With its… petals that are all blurring into one single fuzzy red… shit. 

“It’s not a super big deal,” he sniffs. “We’re basically married now, it won’t really change anything.”

“No, but it still means something,” his mom assured him. “What’s the ring look like?”

“Hopefully I’m picking it up today, I’ll send you guys a pic. But it’s, like, cobalt chrome and rose gold and it’s made from a meteorite. ”

His dad gasps, “A space ring? Because your love-”

“For him is out of this world, right!” Randall laughs. “I hope he likes it.”

“He’ll love it.” His mom takes a deep breath. “I wish we could be there when you ask him.”

“You should cancel your trip. Tell Aunt Joanne you’re allergic to her bullshit and come crash with us for Christmas.”

“Oh, so you want the whole family to know you’re getting married? Because that’s the only way we’re getting out of this one, my darling boy.”

Randall hums as he considers how whole that conversation might go down. He had a lot of fun winding up his more… conservative… family members when he was living at home. Particularly his great aunt. She liked to ask about the girls in his photos on ‘the internet’ and he liked to tell her, ‘Oh, I’m dating everyone in that photo. Especially that guy. We take turns, if you know what I mean.’

“Your mom is right,” his dad grumbles. “I tried to use the medical school excuse and it didn’t work.”

“... because you’re not in medical school.”

“No, but I _am_ living vicariously through you and it’s very stressful.”

Randall wipes his eyes. “I love you guys.” 

“We love you, too,” his mom says. “And we love Hamish, and we cannot wait to see what the future holds for you guys.”

“Ditto,” his dad adds. 

“Please, please, _please_ call me as soon as you ask him! I don’t care how late it is, I want to know everything.”

“I promise. I’ll talk to you guys later.”

“Bye, kiddo!”

Randall’s parents are the best. 

Now to brave his friends and go get the ring. In one… two… damn, this bed is so comfy… OK, fine, three!  
  


He forces himself up and out of bed, into clothes, down the hall to brush his teeth, and to the kitchen for coffee, semi-nutritional sustenance, and a vase or something for his rose. He only makes it as far as the living room, though, before Lilith tackles him to the floor and screams, “You’re asking Hamish to marry you and you weren’t going to tell us? You fucking asshole!”

“It was-”

She smacks her hand over his mouth, scowling down at him. “Listen up, dickhole. You and Hamish are my best friends. You took me in when I had nowhere else to go, and if you thought I would be anything other than ecstatic for you, then you’re-”

He licks her hand.

“Disgusting, oh my god, why are you like this?” she cries, yanking her hand back like it burns. 

“Here’s the thing,” Randall begins, sitting up and grabbing Lilith around the waist. He stands, she yelps and beats him on the shoulders, he doesn’t care and carries her to the kitchen with him. “It was sort of a spur of the moment decision once I found the ring. That’s why I didn’t tell you guys. I appreciate that you’re happy for us, though.”

“I am,” she insists. “Where’d he find a flower at ass o’clock in the morning?”

“Is that what time he left?”

“It’s winter break, anything before eight is too early.”

She’s not wrong. And she makes a good point, he has no idea where Hamish was hiding this rose all night.

“It’s probably magic.”

“Aw, cute and somehow grosser than listening to you to fuck last night.”

He rolls his eyes and sets her on the table so he can peruse the cupboards. “We were quiet.”

“You were trying to be quiet,” she corrects. “When are you asking him?”

“Christmas Eve” He grabs the box of cereal and shakes it in her direction. “Want some?”

“No thanks. You got a plan?”

“... sort of."

Gabrielle pads into the room, yoga mat in tow, rolling her eyes. “Oh, look, Randall is jumping into a big, life altering decision without a plan. What a surprise…”

Randall bops her messy bun.

“Stop it,” she snaps. 

“But it’s so bouncy...”

“You’re such a weirdo!” She smacks his hand away. “Now focus, you’re getting engaged in four days.”

Oh. Right. Game faces. 

He grabs his cereal and leans back against the counter. “OK, so I’m definitely asking him outside in the snow because he loves that.”

Lilith nods. “Good.”

“And that’s all I’ve got beyond, ‘I love you, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, will you marry me?’”

“That’s not bad.”

“But it’s not great either.” 

Gabrielle grabs one of her weird green juices out of the fridge. “Where are you thinking of asking him?”

“Here?”

“Too loud and too many people,” Gabrielle nixes. 

Shit, she’s right. “The woods?”

Alyssa and her flushed complexion, which leads Randall to believe she joined Gabrielle for pilates this morning, wander in and sink into a chair. “You want to propose to your boyfriend in the woods where you murder people?” 

Gabrielle blinks. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Yeah,” Lilith adds, “we have so many great memories in those woods.”

“You also have a few bad memories in those woods,” she points out. “Randall, what’s a place that’s special to just the two of you?”

“The apartment but only because that’s where we had sex and stuff for the first time.” Wait, first time, first...“I can ask him at the park!”

Lilith grins. “Perfect!”

Alyssa and Gabrielle exchange a look, so Randall explains, “It’s my werewolf origin story. Hamish saw me save a kid from getting snatched off the playground, asked me to join the Knights, the rest is history.”

  
“Oh, that’s good,” Gabrielle approves, smiles slowly. “Tell him you’re going to get his present, take him to the park instead. Snow all around, Christmas lights twinkling in the background, leading him to the spot where he first laid eyes on you. Very good, Randall, I’m so impressed.”

Honestly, Randall’s impressed with himself for thinking of it, but he keeps that little fact to himself and finishes his cereal.

* * *

The universe must love Randall today because not only does the jewelry store have a ring in Hamish’s size, they engraved it right away. He wandered around the plaza, pet a few dogs in holiday sweaters - his favorite was the fat Labrador in a parka who ‘woof!’ed at him when he stopped rubbing his ears - and in the shortest hour of his life, the ring was in his pocket. 

Now he has to decide how to ask him. What to say. And he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. 

He tries writing out little speeches while he sits in the Temple, waiting for Hamish to finish up whatever he’s working on. He’s on his fifth one and it just… sucks. They all suck. He scratches it out, digging his pen into his notebook so hard the page rips.

  
“Medical school is going well, then, I take it?”

He glances up at Vera as she steps behind the bar. “Uh, yeah. It’s good.”

She doesn’t look down at the mangled page, thankfully, and instead produces a bottle of milk from the fridge beneath the counter, pours a glass of it, and slides it over to him. “What’s got you so bent out of shape?”

“Can you keep it a secret?”

She looks at him like he just asked her to help him tie his shoes and gestures grandly around the Temple acting as headquarters for the secret society she runs. 

“Good point.” He slumps down in his chair, dragging the glass of milk closer. “I’m going to propose to Hamish and I can’t figure out how to do it.”

“Don’t tell me you really think he’d say no.”

“No, it’s not that, I just…” he takes a sip. “He’s everything to me. And I want… it has to reflect how much he means to me, and I don’t know how to do that.”

She studies him for a moment. “You know what your problem is?”

“I take too many naps?”

“Naps are good for the soul, or so I hear as I never get to take one myself.” She pours herself a glass of bourbon. “Your problem is that you’re a giver. Givers always think they’re going to run out of things to give the people they love, and then they’ll leave or they won’t think they love them anymore.”

That sounds like a bad thing, but she doesn’t say it like an insult. 

“Not everything in life has a price, Randall.” She smiles at him. “He’ll say yes.”

Randall doesn’t know Vera well, but he knows she’s usually right. If she says he’ll accept… “I just want it to be good!”

“Keep it simple,” she advises. “Take him somewhere that means a lot to both of you, tell him you love him, and ask him.”

“That’s not good enough.”

If you told Randall a year ago that he would be sitting at a bar in the Order’s headquarters, he would have looked at you funny and asked how much you’ve had to drink. Now if you told him that exact same thing but added that Vera Stone would be standing across from him and would reach over to hold his hands (!!!!!!!), he probably would have called an ambulance. But, here he is. Vera is holding his hands, grip gentle but firm and her skin is super soft, he should find out what lotion she uses. His mom holds his hands like this, which is a weird jump to make considering Vera went from being his sworn enemy to his love interest’s lover to his boss, but, hey, life is wild. 

“It’s plenty good enough.” 

And if Vera Stone says something with that much conviction, it must be true. 

He glances down at the bar and back up at her. “Want to see the ring?”


	3. In which there is a proposal...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hihihihihi!!!
> 
> I have a feeling I'm going to be hiding from my family (I love them but they are A Lot) in the basement with my dog on actual Christmas, so just in case we can't get an internet signal from there... have some fluff. 
> 
> Sending warm hugs to everyone! (And my dog sends many gentle kisses!)

Randall wakes up the morning of Christmas Eve next to a still sleeping Hamish with a steady shower of snow falling outside their bedroom window and a vague plan of how tonight is going to go:

  1. After the sun goes down, tell Hamish they have to go pick up his present. Hamish will know something is going on because, what the hell kind of present do you pick up at night on Christmas Eve besides a dog and, as much as they all want a Den pet, none of them have time to take care of one. But, because it’s Christmas, Hamish will gamely agree to get in the car and go wherever.
  2. They’ll go to the park. Hamish will ask questions. Randall will ignore those questions. That’s… that’s all he’s got. He’ll just have to ignore the questions or tell him to hush and if he tells Hamish to hush, it’s just going to egg him on. 
  3. Randall will lead Hamish to the spot where they met, about fifty feet away from the playground, and at this point Hamish will either know exactly what Randall is doing or he’ll be more confused than he’s ever been in his entire life. But it won’t matter because…
  4. While Hamish is busy with his feelings or thinking, Randall will get down on his knee and say nice things about how much he loves Hamish and ask him to marry him.
  5. Hamish will say yes - Right? He’s… yes, right, why the hell would he say no? Geez, focus, Carpio -, Randall will put the ring on his finger, they will kiss a lot and come home and kiss more and … and live happily ever after. 
  6. (OK, but really, they’re probably going to call Randall’s parents and their friends, and then they’re probably going to have sex and stay up all night planning their wedding and arguing about their new last names.)



It’s a great plan. Randall feels really good about it. 

Unfortunately it’s only ten in the morning according to the clock on his phone, so he has at least six hours before he can put his plan into motion. Well, he could ask him sooner but the park will probably be crowded and he wants the proposal to be intimate. Hamish likes… but does he really like private, intimate settings, because he has some very exhibitionistic tendencies. And he’s not shy about PDA. The only people he won’t make out with Randall in front of is Vera and the Gnostic Council. 

Hmm. The plan has flexibility now. This is good because he has no idea what Hamish got him and there’s a forty-nine percent chance it’ll throw a wrench into the logistics.

  
  


Randall stretches his arms over his head, smiling at the faint burn in his muscles. They wolfed out last night and terrorized the woodland creatures - sorry, woodland creatures - for hours, chasing anything that moved to the farthest edge of their woods and back. Then they came home, after leftovers from dinner straight out of the pan, took a shower, and fell asleep within minutes of collapsing into bed. It looks like Hamish didn’t move an inch since then, either. He’s in exactly the same spot and position as he was when he tucked Randall’s head under his chin and curled around him, arms wrapped around his stomach in a loose hold.

He presses a quick, soft kiss to Hamish’s forehead, smiling at the sleepy noise Hamish makes in acknowledgement. And he could probably stop himself from doing it again, he has things he could go do - make breakfast, go for a run, shovel the steps and driveway, pester Jack and the girls, the list goes on and on - but why the hell should he?

One of Hamish’s arms slides up to wrap around his shoulders as he rolls onto his back, pulling Randall on top of him as his eyes blink open. 

“Hi,” he greets, voice rough with sleep. “Why am I awake?”

“Because I love you,” Randall replies cheerfully, leaning down to give him a quick peck on the lips.

“I love you, too,” Hamish murmurs, sliding his hand into Randall’s hair and coaxing him into another kiss, deeper and longer. “What time is it?”

“Ten.”

“Damn,” he breathes, “I’ve gotta get going.”

Randall frowns. “Where?”

“The apartment. I need to put the finishing touches on your present.”

‘Finishing touches’ makes it sound like Hamish made him something or got him something that has to be set up. The problem is that Randall probably points at things with some declaration of ‘We need that!’ a million times a week, so it could be anything from a jacuzzi to one of those big, modular sectionals. Or an air fryer. Or an ice cream maker. Or one of those things for the showerheads with a speaker built into it. And that’s just stuff that he’d presumably want at the apartment, there’s still the three hundred or so things he sees online and wants for himself or the Den, like a new laptop or more holds for the climbing wall because he really wants to try going all the way up and across the ceiling and back down on the opposite wall, but those don’t require ‘finishing touches.’

And Hamish either isn’t in that much of a hurry or whatever he needs to do won’t take that long because he pulls Randall down into another kiss, long and slow, towing the line between a single tender moment and the beginning of something much more heated. Randall is content to let the moment stretch on and on but then Hamish is pulling back. 

“If I don’t leave now,  I’m going to keep you here all day,” he whispers in the space between them.

Normally Randall would fail to see why that’s such a bad idea, but he has Plans. And as much as he loves laying around with Hamish all day, he really, really wants everything to go according to plan, so he flops onto his back and watches Hamish cross the room to his dresser. The upside to him getting up is that he slept mostly naked last night so Randall gets to whistle and comment, “ _ Dayum _ ,” until Hamish throws a balled up pair of socks at him. 

“Are you planning on getting out of bed some time today?” he asks as he pulls on a pair of pants. Casual pants, which makes sense given he’s doing something that could require him to get dirty or sweaty or something.

“Eventually,” Randall replies, throwing the socks like a basketball onto the dresser. “Score!”

Hamish rolls his eyes but his smile pulling at his lips ruins it. “Try to make it before six, if you can.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what time I’m coming to pick you up.”

“Cool, but we have to go get your present, too. Does that mess things up for you?”

He shrugs. “Not really.”

After he’s pulled on a sweater and the aforementioned socks, he bends until he’s just out of kissing range. Randall would have to sit up and he knows if he does, Hamish will straighten up because Hamish is a troll and a tease. His troll and his tease, but still. The only thing Randall will be able to do is either grab him by the neck and pull him back, and if he does that, they’re going to wind up doing way more than kissing and Hamish said he has to go. And Randall has to let him because Plans. 

The next time they see each other, Randall will have the ring in his pocket. This will be the last time he says goodbye to his boyfriend because tonight, he’ll be his  _ fiance _ . It’s just a word, Randall knows it’s all just words and Hamish is already his, but… it feels like a lot more than just a word. 

“I’ll see you later,” Hamish says softly, warm breath ghosting over Randall’s lips. 

“Six o’clock,” Randall whispers. “Don’t be late.”

Hamish smiles and leans down the rest of the way to kiss him. “You should check on your rose when you get up.”

“OK.” He bumps his forehead against Hamish’s before he pulls away completely. “Be careful driving. Text me when you get there.”

“I will,” Hamish promises. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

One more kiss and Randall watches him step away, smile lingering on his face like he’s up to no good - isn’t he always? - as he walks out the bedroom door. He forces himself to wait to get up until he hears the Range Rover peel away. 

The rose has been living in their living room since he spends most of his time there and so it can keep Spike the cactus company, but when he goes downstairs, he finds a new rose for every petal that fell off the original, each one paler and paler in color so instead of a single red rose, he now has pink and blush and nearly white roses. 

Jack looks up from whatever he’s watching on TV. “Nervous for tonight?”

“I am now,” he mumbles. “He’s the king of romantic gestures.”

“It is pretty impressive,” Jack agrees, glancing at the roses. “You think he modified  _ Anaplerosi _ ?”

“Maybe.” He grabs the palest pink one and brings it to his nose. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“‘Luck’ would imply you had nothing to do with getting to this point.”

Randall shrugs. “It was pretty easy once we got our shit together.”

“Yeah, but look at how long that took.”

He’s not wrong, but if Randall had dated Hamish back when they first met, they probably would have broken each other’s hearts. Hamish was still devastated and heavily self-medicating with alcohol, so he definitely wasn’t in any shape to be dating. And Randall was a dumb eighteen year old who wanted to party and stir shit up and save the world. Granted he still wants to save the world, but he just had a lot of growing up to do. They both did in some ways. 

Jack bumps his shoulder. “I’m happy for you guys.”

“Thanks.” Randall nudges him back. “Wanna be my best person?”

“Really?”

“I mean, you’ll have to fight Lilith and Gabrielle for it, but I’m rooting for you.”

Jack shrugs. “I could take Gabrielle.”

It’s cute that he thinks that.

* * *

Randall gave himself a few hours to lounge after Hamish texted him that he made it to the apartment and he replied with  _ the flowers are incredible, i cant wait to see you later!!! _ . Then he showered thoroughly, shaved carefully, and now he’s staring down his closet like he didn’t pick out all of these clothes for himself and they were instead planted by someone clearly orchestrating his demise. 

He has  _ nice _ clothes, but that’s the thing. They’re _ nice _ . He doesn’t want to look  _ nice _ , he wants to look… oh god, what is he supposed to wear for this? He should have thought of this earlier. Hamish is picking him up in thirty minutes and he -

“Hey,” Alyssa says brightly, “can Jack borrow your - what’s wrong?”

See, she looks great - knee length green dress, black suede ankle boots, she could propose to someone like that. 

He waves for her to come in. “What, uh,” he lowers his voice, “what would you wear if you were me and you were going to ask Hamish to marry you?”

Her entire face lights up as she shoves past him to flip through the hangers. “Oh my god, you  _ do _ have real clothes!”

“You’ve seen me in real clothes, but those are all doctor-in-training clothes! I can’t propose to him in-”

“No, Randall, you have so many clothes!”

He does? 

  
He leans around her. “I’ve never seen those.”

“They still have the tags on.”

“You’re welcome.”

They both jump and turn to see Gabrielle leaning in the doorway, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. 

Randall blinks at her. “You bought me clothes without telling me…?”

“Yes. Because you’re in medical school and you need to practice dressing like someone people would trust with their lives all the time, not just in class. Merry Christmas.”

Alyssa makes an agreeable face and turns back to the closet. “OK, these jeans, this sweater - oh, no  _ this _ shirt and sweater!”

Gabrielle ducks past her to produce a pair of boots he’s never seen before but immediately likes. She and Alyssa lay the outfit out on his bed, plus the jacket he stole from Hamish. It might not be warm enough by time the night is over, but they won’t be outside that long. Hopefully. 

Alyssa turns back to grab a shirt he  _ has _ seen before. “For Jack?”

  
“Yes.” He pulls her into a quick hug. “Thank you.”

She hugs him back tightly and kisses his cheek. “Congratulations again!”

  
He turns to Gabrielle, about to hug her, but she plants a hand on his chest.

“You,” she says firmly, even as her eyes glisten, “were the first person in this school who ever looked at me like someone you wanted on your team instead of someone you were terrified to play against. And you - no, let me get through this, then you can hug the shit out of me. You were nice to me when you had no reason to be, and you were the only person who realized underneath the perfect hair and great skin and rocking bod, I’m just like everyone else, I just had to work ten times harder to be taken seriously and not many people understand what that does to someone, but you did.”

A tear slides down her cheek. She acts like she doesn’t notice it, so he wipes it away for her.

“Forcing you to be my friend was the best decision I’ve ever made. And I’m glad you found someone who loves you the way you want to be loved, even if it took him a while to figure it out, but you will always be my soulmate first. You better make sure Hamish knows that.”

Randall nods, brushing away another tear from her cheek. “He does.” 

She nods, too, lip quivering. “Please hug me now.”

He grabs her and lifts her off the ground, spinning her around till she laughs. “I love you, Gabby.”

“I love you, too, now put me down, you idiot.” 

  
He does, and she leans over to check herself in the mirror. 

“You look beautiful,” he tells her. “Like always.”

She smiles at him, sniffling, and uses a shirt lying around to dab beneath her eyes. “I know."

He nods and closes the door behind her. Once he’s dressed, he checks himself in the mirror and decides he looks good. He’d marry himself. He thinks…?

He descends the stairs to catcalls and whistles and while he wants to flip the bird, he just grins at them, shaking his head. 

Lilith steps forward to smooth down the jacket. “You have the ring?”

“Yes.” He confirms this with a pat to his jacket pocket. 

“It’s in the box?”

He starts to answer but checks to be sure. “Yes.”

“You have a vague idea of what you’re going to say?”

“I think so.”

“And even if you screw up any of those things, he will still marry you because he loves you.”

Alyssa yells from the window, “He just pulled up!”

This is it. Time to get engaged, Carpio.

Randall forces himself not to look up at Hamish until he’s right in front of him, because he knows the second he sees him, it’s going to get a lot harder not to drop down on one knee right then and there. Because Hamish will look stunning, even if he’s in the same clothes he left in, and it’s snowing and his first thought was to do it here and it’s all just going to turn into a thing if he doesn’t keep his head on straight.

When he finally does look up, Hamish is… stunning. Just like Randall knew he would be and just like he always is. Long navy coat over a pale gray v-neck sweater, dark pants that highlight every inch of his legs. Gray scarf draped around his neck - good, Randall can yank him into a kiss with that later - and smiling like he hasn’t seen Randall in a year when they saw each other just this morning. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” Randall says, wrapping his arms around Hamish’s waist. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” Hamish kisses him on the lips. “You look great.”

“So do you.” He kisses him again. “Should we do your present first?”

“Yes, but I have a really annoying request.”

That is … weird, but, “Shoot.”

“I left my wallet at the Blade and Chalice earlier, so I was hoping we could swing by on our way.”

“Isn’t it closed?” Hamish raises his eyebrows. “Oh, hell  _ yes,  _ Hamburgler! I am so down for a little holiday breaking and entering. God, when's the last time we did that? It's been, like, a year since we ransacked anything, can I ransack it?”

“I’m sure it’s in the safe, but by all means, tear the place to pieces just in case.”

Randall pumps his fist. “Yes!”

Hamish rolls his eyes and pulls him towards the car. “Nice jacket, by the way.”

“Thanks, my boyfriend gave it to me,” Randall quips. 

  
“Did he?”

“Yeah, right after he ripped my shirt off in public.”

“That is a gross simplification of what happened that day,” Hamish complains. “First of all, it was Tundra-”

“And you!”

“Second of all, you were about to go kill someone-”

“Who turned out to be the bad guy the whole time,” Randall reminds him. “It’s not a very warm jacket, by the way.”

“Style, not substance,” Hamish says, cranking the dial on Randall’s seat warmer. “It does look good on you.”

Randall grins at him. “Thanks.”

They pull into the parking lot closest to the bar and walk the rest of the way. It is, as Randall’s weather app previously predicted, snowing like crazy, and this jacket really, really isn’t cutting it. The boots are doing great, though, crunching through the snow without soaking it up, so apparently they’re stylish  _ and _ substantial. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets, fingers reflexively closing around the box, and glances at Hamish, snowflakes dotting his hair and clinging to his eyelashes, smile pulling at his lips because it’s snowing and he loves the snow. And Randall looks around, notices how empty campus is, how the icicles on the trees glisten, how they’re the only ones here, and he has to do it. He can’t wait a single moment more. 

Hamish looks over at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. 

“Then why did we stop walking…?”

Randall can do this. (He’s terrified.) It’s the same things they say to each other all the time. (This is the most important moment of his life so far.) They’re already married. (His hands are shaking.) This won’t change anything. (They’re going to be together for the rest of their lives.) Hamish will say yes. (Please say yes.)

He starts to take out the ring when he realizes the lights are all on inside the Blade and Chalice, and he blurts out, “I thought we were breaking in…?”

Hamish’s head snaps in the direction of the bar. “Damnit.”

There are people in there. Actually, that red coat looks just like his mom’s… Why is his mom here? Was… was that his parents’ SUV in the parking lot? They’re supposed to be at his evil extended family’s sad Christmas eve dinner. 

Wait, is that Jack sneaking through the door? It’s very bad sneaking, so it can only be Jack. 

He turns to ask Hamish what the hell is going on but is met with lips instead, hands curling around his neck, thumbs brushing against his jaw. 

Hamish pulls away and he looks… nervous. Hamish doesn’t get nervous, why is-

“You are the source of every good thing in my life, Randall. You make everywhere we go feel like home. You brought me Lilith and Jack and everyone who came along with them. You made us a family. You have given me everything I have ever wanted, and somehow you keep finding ways to give me more every day.”

He almost misses Hamish reaching into his pocket. Almost. 

“I owe you a million dates, a thousand dinners, and more kisses than we’ll ever be able to count. I will stay in bed with you all day every day as late and long as you want, and I will take you anywhere in the world you want to go. I’ll take you to the moon if that’s what you want.”

Hamish pulls out a box identical to the one in his own jacket. 

“Even if it takes every day for the rest of our lives, I promise I will do everything I can to give you everything you’ve always given me.”

Randall has to blink a few times to be sure it’s a ring in his hand. A really, really badass black ring with black diamonds glinting in the street lights and it is exactly the kind of ring he’d pick out for himself but it never crossed his mind. Because he was going to propose to Hamish. Not… not that this is bad. At all. This is… he has to wipe his eyes to double check Hamish is really kneeling in the snow outside the place where they kissed for the first time - oh my god, Randall is such an oblivious idiot - holding a ring, because he’s… he’s asking… 

“Will you marry me?”

He looks terrified. Like Randall could possibly say anything other than, “Yes!”

And then there are arms wrapped tight around him, a hand cradling his head as he buries his face into Hamish’s chest, laughing and crying and repeating, “I love you,” over and over again. And people are cheering and laughing and there are cameras flashing. 

_ May the years be long and sweet to both of you _ .

He has never been more grateful that Greybeard chose him in his entire life than he has in this moment. So he’s going to make damn sure that he and Hamish get their happily ever after so Greybeard and Tundra can get theirs, too. 

He takes a step back and wipes his face with the back of his hand. “This is going to be a lot less impressive now, but…”

He takes Hamish’s hand and gets down on his knee. 

“Four and a half years ago, I was running in the park and I thought I had my whole life figured out,” he begins, swallowing to make his voice sound stronger. “Then I met you and within five minutes, everything changed. All I wanted from that moment on was to be your knight in shining armor. Your best friend. Your partner in crime.”

Hamish blinks down at him. “Randall, you-”

“And then I fell in love with you and now I wake up every morning thinking I can’t possibly love you any more than I already do, and by the end of the day, I find a million more things I love about you, Hamish.”

He risks a quick glance up to see Hamish smiling like a sunrise, slowly, his whole face lighting up as he realizes what’s happening. 

“So now all I want for the rest of my life,” Randall whispers, bringing Hamish’s hand to his lips, “is to spend it with you. Will you marry me?”

Hamish laughs breathlessly, nodding. Randall barely gets a chance to slide the ring onto his finger before he’s being pulled off the ground and kissed, hard and fast and his friends are screaming and his mom is crying and his dad is whistling...

Wait. 

Why are his friends and his parents here again? 

He glances over to see Nicole, beaming behind a very fancy looking camera, and Jack recording the whole thing on his phone. 

“You all knew he was proposing?” he cries. “All of you knew and let me propose on the same freaking night?”

“I didn’t know,” Hamish offers as a consolation, drying Randall’s cheeks with his sleeve. “And I was going to ask you inside, where we had our first kiss, but I guess I drove too fast.”

Randall catches his hand and holds it in his. “I was going to ask you in the park.” 

“Trust me,” Gabrielle shouts, “this was way better!”

“OK, I can’t take it anymore,” his mom bursts out, shuffling through the snow towards them with open arms. “This is the third best day in my life!”

She throws her arms around them both and hugs them so much tighter than her tiny body should be capable of, but… moms, right? 

“I love you so, so much, my beautiful boys,” she says, smacking a kiss to Randall's cheek and another to Hamish’s, “and since he got us out of visiting the scary side of the family, Hamish is my new favorite son.”

“Ha,” Hamish mutters, but there isn’t enough smug and sarcasm in the world to cover up the catch in his throat. 

His dad steps up and grabs Randall by the shoulders. “I hope you appreciate how difficult it was for me not to blab when you called us the other day. I was internally screaming.”

“I’m very impressed, Dad,” Randall laughs, giving his dad a hug. “I’m glad you guys were here.”

“He’s a good one, kiddo. Take good care of him.”

He meets Hamish’s eyes over his dad’s shoulders and smiles. “I will.”

“And you,” his dad lets him go and turns to hug Hamish, “are going to that Maple Leafs game with me whether you like it or not. We have a lot of father-son bonding to do.”

“I can’t wait,” Hamish assures him, grinning at Randall. “But that’s still a ridiculous name for a hockey team.”

“Hey, speaking of names,” Randall interjects, gently pulling his boyfr-fiance (FIANCE!!!!) aside. “You wanna be Hamish Carpio-Duke or Hamish Duke-Carpio?”

“What was it you told me about top billing?” Hamish teases with a grin as he shrugs off his coat and drapes it over Randall’s shoulders. “Something about ‘If you have to ask, you don’t get it’?”

Randall sighs as he steps once again into the warmth of Hamish’s arms and bumps their noses together. “There you go again, twisting my words and using them against me. So not cool, Lameish.”

“Good thing you love me anyway,” Hamish whispers, holding his face in his hands and kissing his forehead. 

  
He considers pushing the issue and pointing out ‘C’ is higher in the alphabet and that has a lot of advantages, but that can wait. It’s much, much more important that he knocks his head gently against Hamish’s jaw because it always makes him smile and he loves making Hamish smile. He’s vaguely aware that his friends are taking more photos and ‘awwing’ and his mom is back to crying her eyes out, but more than that, more than anything, he feels Hamish, warm and solid against him, and the snowflakes landing in his hair and on his face, and everything is perfect. 


	4. In which there are (renewed) wedding vows and Hamish has some explaining to do...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it was supposed to be a Christmas story and it's a whole new year, but I can explain!
> 
> So I wrote you smut (it starts when Randall pins Hamish to the wall - that's something we all want in life, yes? to be passionately pinned to a wall and kissed like our lives depend on it? no? ANYWAY - and it ends when Randall asks if they just renewed something), and then it got a little angsty. And I promised you fluff and no angst. So I had to fix it.
> 
> But before I could fix it, it had to get a little more angsty. Lo and behold, there are two more chapters, and maaaaaaaaybbbbbeeeeeeeee a proper sequel... The thing is, I have a completely separate Hamish-centric idea I'm playing around with so IDK which one will manifest into a post-worthy content first. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you're all doing well and staying safe and feeling so much love in the new year!

Greybeard does not like snow.

It’s cold and wet and clumps up in his fur. It presents several tactical disadvantages - clearly visible tracks, everything smells stronger because of the moisture in the air, the crunching sound under his big ole werewolf feet -, but you know what Greybeard does like?

  
Tundra. 

And you know what else Greybeard likes?

  
Tackling Tundra into a snowbank deep enough to suffocate a large child. Especially because Tundra pretends to hate it, biting his ear and tugging playfully, snarling in a way even Randall knows is a complete and total bluff, but what really gives Tundra away is when he licks Greybeard’s nose and takes off again. 

Randall can’t believe people think these guys are terrifying and ferocious.

They’ve been shoving each other into bushes and chasing each other and nuzzling and nibbling for… god, Randall doesn’t even know. Longer than he expected to be out here, but he’s still buzzing with _hesaidyesomgyayayayay_ energy so, real talk, he could use all the running around he can get. 

After they finally wandered inside the Blade and Chalice earlier, Randall found roses waiting for him on the table where, two years ago, Hamish’s brilliant cover for their supposedly sudden familiarity was to pretend to be falling in love. Where Randall took it a step farther and said, “Kiss me,” and as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how much he really wanted Hamish to do it, and when he did… that was it. Everything changed and then it wasn’t pretending anymore. And he missed all the signs that Hamish felt the same way, and they both fought it until they couldn’t anymore, and here they are. 

Then someone popped champagne and non-alcoholic champagne, and someone else turned on music, and Randall wasn’t sure Hamish would want to dance because it was something he did with Cassie, but Hamish led him to an empty spot in the bar. Randall hadn’t slow danced since his prom, but it sure as hell didn’t feel like it did with Hamish - nothing feels like it does with Hamish -, like the world melted away and they were living in its hazy afterglow. (Note to self - dance with Hamish more often.)

Between dancing and drinking, it came out that Hamish had been planning this proposal for nearly two months. First he called Randall’s parents to tell them he wanted to marry Randall and he wanted them to be there when he did. Then he called his own parents and left them a voicemail that he was getting engaged, which is really what that phone call in the Den earlier this week was about because they had ‘concerns, which were really just opinions that don’t bear repeating,’ according to Hamish.

Once Randall’s parents were looped in, Hamish told the Knights+2 and asked for help on… everything. Setting up the Blade and Chalice, sneaking Randall’s parents into town, keeping Randall as oblivious as possible, everything. Randall made that so much easier on them once he also decided to propose and then they mostly just sat back and laughed amongst themselves. 

His parents headed back to their hotel around eleven with plans to come over to the Den for brunch in the morning. Not long after, their friends wandered back to the Den after a lot of hugging (Jack and Nicole), drunk swaying (Alyssa), and a small gift bag deposited on the table top with a smile and a wink (Gabrielle and Lilith, the world’s most terrifying dynamic duo). And once they got texts from everyone letting them know they made it home safely, Hamish and Randall fired off a few cleaning spells, refilled all the bottles, and snuck a few extra twenties and fifties into the safe. 

Initially, Randall’s only other plans for the rest of the night were getting Hamish naked and in bed as fast as possible, but this snow happens to be the perfect consistency for snowballs. He knew it. Hamish knew it. If their friends were awake and outside, they’d know it, too. And you can only throw so many snowballs before it escalates into all out warfare, but when you’re werewolves, throwing snowballs and shoving snow in each other’s faces just doesn’t cut it. So they made a big show of tucking their rings - engagement rings, in case you forgot, because they’re engaged now, thank you very much - back into the boxes and stashed them, along with their clothes, in the front hallway before wolfing out. 

Greybeard follows Tundra back to the Den and due to a slight timing miscalculation, Randall winds up ankle deep in snow before he clears the bottom steps in a single jump. The porch is still freezing, but unlike the snow, it’s not so cold that it burns his skin, which is an immediate improvement _except_ his feet are numb so he stumbles into Hamish and knocks him back against the door. Not that this is a bad thing. In fact, it’s a pretty great thing because the whole sequence ends with his body pressed right up against Hamish’s, hands braced on either side of him and effectively caging him in. Well, as much as Hamish can ever be caged in. He’s sneaky. He seems pretty pleased with the situation, though, given the soft smirk and the interested gleam to his eyes. 

Randall leans in closer, leaving no more than an inch between their faces. “‘Carpio-Duke’ sounds better.”

“Without context, sure,” Hamish murmurs, tracing the line of Randall’s throat with one cold finger. “But if you put it all together, ‘Doctor Randall Duke-Carpio,’ has a pretty nice ring to it.”

“So does ‘Doctor Hamish Carpio-Duke,’” Randall counters. “You’ve gotta admit, ‘Doctor Carpio-Duke’ is better than ‘Doctor Duke-Carpio.’”

“You’re being very generous in your assumption that I’m ever going to finish my dissertation.”

Randall rolls his eyes and he tries again, “What about ‘Professor Hamish Carpio-Duke,’ then? Or just ‘Professor Carpio-Duke?’”

“Hmm,” he slides his arms over Randall’s shoulders. “It’s a bit of a mouthful.”

“I’ll give -”

Hamish ruins what would have been an excellent retort by catching Randall’s bottom lip between his teeth. He has no sense of humor or appreciation for Randall’s wit. But his mouth is hot and he tastes sweet like the fake champagne from earlier, so Randall will forgive him. Just this once (and a million times after this). 

“Your lips are freezing,” Hamish murmurs. “Let’s get you inside.”

Randall nods but he can’t seem to move except to press his lips more deliberately to Hamish’s. The door opens and he’s leaning, leaning, and they’re laughing into each other’s mouths until Hamish pulls him the rest of the way inside. 

He grabs his clothes off the floor and backs toward the stairs, giving Randall a thorough, appreciative onceover, and he already has Randall on a hook, is biting his lip like that really necessary? Does he want Randall to make it up to their room or does he want him to just dissolve into a puddle right next to his clothes and his, “Wait a sec!” 

He digs through his stuff to pull the ring out of the pile, holding it out to Hamish. “Put it back on me.”

The suave, sexy thing Hamish was working with - is always working with, to be honest - slips just long enough for Randall to catch the drop of his shoulders, like his spine just melted a little. Randall knows the feeling. 

He takes Randall’s hand and slides the ring onto his finger. “I almost got you a gold band. If you want-”

“No, this one is perfect.”

He takes the box out of Hamish’s hand and removes his ring to put it on his finger. It looks just as good on him as Randall imagined it would. The perfect combination of elegant and rugged and he almost misses the rose gold edge until the Christmas lights flash. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers, smiling at Hamish. “Just like you.” 

Hamish pulls him into a long, bruising kiss, pulls him all the way to the wall until Randall presses him against it. His nails digging into Randall’s back like he’s trying to pull him closer, impossibly closer, and if Randall could get any closer he would, but all he can do is grab the back of Hamish’s thighs and coax him into wrapping his legs around his hips. (Best use of enhanced werewolf strength _ever_. Hamish totally should have led with this when he recruited him.) It doesn’t exactly get them closer, but it does make Hamish’s breath hitch and the grip on his back turn sharp enough to draw blood. His nails dig in even harder when Randall drags his mouth from Hamish’s to kiss his neck, his skin still cool and pebbled with goosebumps.

“Bed?”

“That depends on whether or not you’re going to put me down.”

Randall grins and steps away from the wall, hauling Hamish along with him. “Not.”

“This is -”

  
“Romantic?” Randall offers, and you’re damn right he’s carrying Hamish up the stairs like that. “Impressive? Hot?”

“Ridiculous,” Hamish says in a dry voice.

Randall brushes his nose against Hamish’s. “Then why are you smiling?”

“Because it’s also very ‘you.;”

If Randall reads into that too much, he’s going to get detailed from his mission. That’s another one of Hamish’s traps. He says something open-ended that turns out to be incredibly heart-warming and snaps Randall out of seduction mode and then Hamish wins. 

And yet...

“Are you saying I’m ridiculous?” he asks as he lays Hamish down on their bed.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he murmurs, sliding his hands up Randall’s back and curling them around his shoulders to pull him down. 

That’s… that is probably a fair statement but Randall has more important things to consider. Like how Hamish’s skin isn’t cool to the touch anymore but he shivers anyway when Randall slots his leg between his, and how one of his hands strays to Randall’s hair, fingers raking stroking through his curls while the other drifts drifts lower and lower until he has a handful of Randall’s ass and is pulling him closer, tighter against him. And Randall almost kisses him, he wants to, but he also wants to watch Hamish’s face when he moves against him, the way his eyes flutter closed till only a slit of icy blue, clear as crystal, escapes through his lashes and his mouth parts on a low goran, head tipping to the side and exposing the muscles of his throat. He runs his mouth over them, dragging his teeth over his pulse point, feels the strong and fast thrum of it against his tongue. 

He moves lower, rubbing his cheek over Hamish’s heart where it hammers against his chest, and no matter how many times they do this, it never ceases to amaze Randall that he can make Hamish’s heart race like this, that he has the most beautiful man in the world spread out underneath him and he’s his. All his, for the rest of their lives.

He drops a kiss there, right over Hamish’s heart, skin burning under his lips. He kisses him a little lower and then lower, mouthing all the way down Hamish’s body as nails drag lightly over his scalp. He glances up to meet Hamish’s eyes as he passes over his dick entirely to sink his teeth into the inside of his thigh, blood turning to lava and surging at the harsh, heavy breath Hamish sucks in through his teeth.

He licks over the bite he just left and murmurs, “I love when you get loud like this.”

Hamish grins, all teeth, nails dragging pleasantly over Randall’s scalp - note to self, demand more head rubs, no wonder Hamish likes this - and twists to grab the lube with his free hand. “See what you can make me do with this.”

Challenge accepted. 

He slicks up his fingers and licks a long, lazy stripe up Hamish’s dick because as much as he adores loving on Hamish, teasing him is a lot of fun, too. He doesn’t do it often enough. Plus he figured out this really great trick, Hamish really, really likes when Randall presses the tip of his tongue to his slit, and if he presses his finger against him at the same time, it might actually get Hamish to -

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Yes, that, perfect. 

Now he just has to make Hamish do it again and again, but it’s hard to focus on sucking his dick when he’s also working his finger deeper inside of him because he’s insanely, dizzyingly hot and tight and it makes his brain melt. Especially when Hamish tugs on his hair and pulls him back to his lips, flicks his tongue against Randall’s and rocks back against his finger like it’s not enough, like he wants more already, and when has Randall ever been able to say no to him? He works a second finger inside of him, presses his mouth to Hamish’s scar and he barely breathes over it before he’s being rolled onto his back.

He says this a lot, that Hamish has never looked better than he does in any given moment, he says it all the time, but this? The way his hair is falling over his forehead and casting shadows over his eyes, so blue they practically glow in the darkness of their bedroom, how his muscles ripple as he rocks down on Randall’s hand - still tight, still hot, still making Randall dizzy with how much he fucking wants him -, it makes it hard for Randall to breathe. 

He leans down, hand sliding from Randall’s chest - he barely touches the scar but fuck, fuck, _fuck_ \- to tilt his chin up and it’s barely a kiss, it’s just a brush of lips against his but the hand is back on his chest, holding him there. He could move, he could grab Hamish by the back of his neck and kiss him harder, hold him in place while he licks into his mouth, but the instruction is clear. Stay here. Just be still and let Hamish kiss him with soft, feather light touches of his lips as he reaches back to stroke Randall with a slick hand - when did he grab the lube, when did Randall lose control of this situation entirely, did he ever have it? - and trails his lips across Randall’s cheek to whisper in his ear, “‘Carpio-Duke’ is growing on me.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Hamish echoes.

There’s bound to be a clever response to that somewhere in Randall’s brain but his fiancé (FIANCE!!!) sinks down on him and there are no coherent thoughts left in his brain beyond, “Hamish..."

His hands fly to Hamish’s hips. He’s not sure if he wants him to slow down because it’s too much, he’s too hot and tight and it feels too good, or hold him there so he can rock up into him, or maybe he just wants to touch him. Maybe it’s just not enough that he’s surrounded by him, getting deeper inch by inch until he’s buried in him because he could be closer, they could be closer.

Hamish pulls back a little when Randall sits up to kiss him so he nuzzles along the bridge of his nose instead, presses his lips to the middle of his brow and his temple and nudges him till he turns his head so he can kiss his cheek and Hamish makes a soft noise, something between a sigh and a whimper that Randall wants to ask about - they haven’t done it like this in a while, he should have fingered him longer, he doesn’t want to hurt him -, but Hamish slots their mouths and, just like that, every single gap between them closes. 

The slow drag of his body over Randall’s dick as he lifts up and sinks back down, the way he shudders and gasps into Randall’s mouth makes everything hazy and the world shrinks down to Hamish, rocking up and down on him, kissing his lips and his jaw and his neck, his dick hot and heavy and leaking a trail up Randall’s stomach with every move. It’s hard to move like this, to meet the roll of his hips even halfway, he’s really just flexing against him and it’s good, it’s always good, he’s fine sitting here, holding Hamish and letting him take what he wants, but Hamish covers his hands in his and leans forward again, pressing Randall to the bed and pinning his arms down on either side of his head.

Hamish brushes his thumb back and forth over the inside of his wrists and whispers against his lips, “OK?”

  
“Perfect.” He thrusts into him as he rocks down, slow, shallow, watching for signs that it’s too much - it’s too good, too fucking good - and asks in a rush of air. “This OK?”

“Perfect,” Hamish breathes between kisses. “So fucking perfect.”

Randall thrusts into him again, still slow, still shallow, still waiting a beat for a sign that it’s too much but all he gets is Hamish’s hands sliding from his wrists to lace their fingers together and a groan rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. So he does it again, a little harder, and the smack of their bodies as they meet almost drowns out their gasps, but he wants to hear Hamish, he _loves_ hearing Hamish so he does it again, harder. And harder. He presses his mouth to Hamish’s neck to lick his scar and grinds in as deep as he can. The vibrations of his throat as he moans make Randall’s lips tingle. He follows the sound with his lips and he snaps his hips, punching louder and longer gasps out of Hamish that he feels more than hears because he’s just chasing sensations at this point, heat and friction and tremors from muscles that clench down around him on every thrust, the sharp sting of claws sinking into his hands and raking down his arms, blood and sweat and sex and Hamish - _HamishHamishHamish_ \- saturating the air.

He kisses his way back down Hamish’s neck and grazes the skin at the base of his throat with his teeth, and he means to ask, he does, he should ask but the words dissolve on his tongue because Hamish shudders and tenses around him and he’s close, so fucking close.

Hamish grabs his hands and puts them back on his hips, and Randall barely gets a hold of him before his nails turn sharp and dig in, coaxing him to roll his hips faster, harder, holding him down so he can grind in deeper. He bites down on his neck, lightly, just a nip, just testing the waters but Hamish tips his head back, baring his throat in invitation so he bites down harder till blood fills his mouth and drives into him and Hamish growls out Randall’s name when he comes and his body goes impossibly tighter, tensing around him almost painfully.

He slows down, licks gently at the blood beading up on Hamish’s neck, rocks into him more carefully, but it’s hard to be gentle and careful when hips rock down to meet his thrusts, when hands cover his where they’re clutching at Hamish’s hips and drag them up over his ribs, even though it has to be uncomfortable at this point. But what finally does it, what makes him come harder than he has in his entire life, is when Hamish’s teeth clamp down his shoulder, or maybe it’s when Hamish kisses him and he tastes blood his own blood, it’s hard to say when it finally rips through him and reduces him to a boneless, vaguely Randall-shaped blob collapsing against the mattress, shakily reaching for Hamish - he might be fucked out, but he has enough muscle memory and awareness to catch his fiance (fiance… ! ... OK, he’s excited but he’s a blob so he can’t scream it internally right now) before flops over in a similarly comatose state. 

“Did we,” he pants, pressing his forehead to Hamish’s, “did we just… renew our werewolf wedding vows?”

“Yeah,” Hamish grunts, and he is probably going for a caress but he’s sort of just... pawing at Randall’s thigh. Whatever. Randall will take it. “Seemed approfri… approper… fuck, it seemed like a good idea.” 

Randall rolls onto his side but he winds up face planting in Hamish’s chest, which is fine. He likes Hamish’s chest. “I don’t remember my last name anymore. I’ll be Randall Whoever-the-Hell-You-Want.”

“I meant it. ‘Carpio-Duke’ works for me.”

“What would I have to do to get you to drop ‘Duke’ altogether?”

“Honestly?”

“No, lie to me, you know how much I love it when you do that.”

“I have never lied to you, except before we were dating, and anything I keep from you now is because I don’t like to talk about it. To anyone, not just you.”

Randall peels his face off of Hamish’s pec to squint at him. “Is there a lot of stuff like that?”

“No.”

“Is it bad stuff? Are you OK?”

“Besides the fact that you just fucked my brains out and I still can’t get my legs to work?”

“Hamela Anderson…”

Hamish groans. "Why? For the love of god, why?"

“It’s because you’re sexy as hell, which is a compliment, now stop deflecting.”

“I was-”

“Shh,” Randall presses his finger to Hamish’s lips. “You are the smartest, strongest, sexiest, sneakiest, most romantic, and all around best person that I know. Nothing is ever going to change the way I feel about you, so if you’re not telling me stuff because you think I won’t love you anymore or I’ll think less of you… that’s dumb. But if it’s really because you’re not ready to talk about it, that’s OK.” 

Hamish rolls his eyes and sighs, tangling his fingers with Randall’s and pulling his hand away from his mouth. “I was going to say I’m not completely attached to ‘Duke.’”

Um. What. That’s… “Really?”

“Mhmm.”

“I was kind of joking.”

“Based on a few of those nice things you just said about me, you should have known I’d call your bluff.”

“I said ‘kind of,’” Randall points out, squeezing his hand. “I wouldn’t mind taking your name, either, you know. Since you stole me and all.”

“I did do that,” Hamish murmurs, bringing Randall’s hand to his lips. “We’re going to have to settle this the old fashioned way.”

“Beer pong?”

“Beer pong,” he confirms. “I’ll have to get someone else to play for me, though.”

He traces Hamish’s smile with his thumb. “Can we go back to that other stuff for a minute?”

Hamish lets out a long, heavy breath. “It’s really complicated, baby.”

Randall is used to Hamish being private. Keeping things to himself and turning them over and over till jagged edges turn smooth, till he can make all the pieces fit where he needs them to go, then he makes his moves. And Randall went with it for a long time because… at first, it was because Randall was a noob. Then it was because Hamish was genuinely older and wiser, he always seemed to know better, but that had to change when they joined the Order. And Hamish commits and adapts like no one else, waits and watches and bides his time. Carries things on his own because he thinks they’re too heavy for anyone else. Makes decisions for himself and everyone else privately because if it was the wrong call, it would be his wrong call, the consequences would be his. 

But it’s not fair. It’s not how they’re supposed to operate. They’re a team, they take care of each other, Randall can’t do that if Hamish doesn’t talk to him about things.

Randall shifts closer, draping his arm over Hamish’s body and tucking his head under his chin. “Your complicated stuff is my complicated stuff now, too. Or it will be soon.”

“Fair enough.” Hamish’s throat clicks as he swallows. “My father is convinced I’m not his child. That’s the main reason we never got along. He never wanted anything to do with me, which meant my mother had to do everything and she already used up most of her maternal energy on my brothers and sister so there wasn’t quite enough to make it through my formative years. Her words, not mine. Anyway, right before my senior year of high school, my dad got sick. Colon cancer.”

Randall winces. “That sucks.”

“They caught it early and he was mostly fine, but it understandably scared the shit out of my family. Mostly because if something happened to my father, there would be no one left to run the firm. My brothers are in finance and marketing, and my sister got married to some guy who thinks he’s the next John Kennedy. And then there was me, already considering a law degree after only recently abandoning any and all attempts to make my father want anything to do with me.”

He rolls onto his side, rests his head against Randall’s collarbone. “This next part makes me sound like a horrible person.”

“We kill people.”

“For good reasons.”

“We eat people’s hearts.”

“Also for good reasons.”

That’s debatable, but Hamish goes on before he can argue that point, “I told them if they gave me my inheritance early, I’d do it. It never crossed my mind they'd really consider it, but they were desperate enough to give me the apartment complex and twenty-five percent if I got into the accelerated pre-law program. I’d get half when I finished law school, and the last twenty-five when I got married or had my first child, whichever comes first. It was… absurd, Randall, but I was going to study law anyway and I figured… what the hell? How bad can it be?”

Bad. It could be really bad. 

There’s an accelerated pre-med program, too. It’s insane. Randall had taken one look at that schedule and it was a big, long nope-rope leading to a big, steaming pile of hell no. He can only imagine the pre-law version is at the same level of intensity and only for people who hate their lives. Then again, when he combines this new information with what he already knows about teenaged Hamish, it sounds like he basically survived on nothing but angst, booze, sex, and spite. He was probably a great candidate. 

“I honestly got a kick out of the whole thing at first. I got into the program with no problem, I had more money than I knew what to do with, and my dad finally gave a shit about me. But the schedule was demanding and I was stressed and miserable, and then I met Cassie and became a werewolf and… as pathetic and cliché as it sounds, I finally felt like I was where I belonged, with someone who wanted me all the time, in every way, no conditions or expectations. So I dropped the pre-law thing. My family panicked, sold the firm and blacklisted me. Cassie died, eventually they started talking to me again, you know the rest.”

“All I’m hearing is that your family make bad decisions in crisis and you beat them at their own game.” Randall presses his lips to the top of Hamish’s head. “It’s pretty on-brand for you, actually.”

“You’re missing the important part.”

“...oh, shit, is your dad OK?”

“God, I love you,” Hamish sighs, nuzzling the hollow of his throat. “No, I meant the part about getting another part of my inheritance when I get married.”

Oh. 

OH.

  
Ohhhh. 

Wait... “Do your parents think I’m a gold-digger?”

“Yepp.”

He should be insulted, but mostly it’s really fucking hilarious because they don’t need more money. He’s seen Hamish’s bank and credit card statements, they’d be fine until Randall finishes school. He's going to make enough money to take care of both of them. It will be tight for a few years, sure, since he has to get through residency and he’s going to have an obscene amount of loans to pay back, but they have a place to live. Two places. His car is getting close to two hundred thousand miles, so it might not run much longer, but Hamish has two cars. And Hamish has a job and makes money off the apartment complex, so how can they possibly need more money?

But Hamish isn’t laughing. So… something else must be wrong.

“Hamish, I don’t care what your family thinks of me.”

“I care that it’s the first thing that occurred to them when I told them I was in love and proposing instead of being happy for us.”

Oh. 

Randall slides down the bed until their eyes meet and takes his face in his hands. “If we go to meet them on Saturday, do you think it would change anything?”

Hamish shakes his head.

“Can we just not take the money?”

Another shake.

“Do they know I’m going to make more money than you?”

Nod. 

“Are you not talking because you think I can’t tell that you’re sad? You look sad. You _smell_ sad. You’re allowed to be sad. This is a safe place.”

That one gets him an eye roll, which is rude. Sort of cute, but mostly rude. He _is_ sad, though, and Randall can’t let Hamish be sad. Not tonight. So he rolls over to grab the envelope from his second drawer, wrapped in a gold ribbon with a red bow, and hands it to Hamish. “Merry Christmas, babe.”

Hamish smacks the bow onto Randall’s forehead and carefully opens it. “What is it?”

“I got us a cabin for a long weekend upstate, but it’s not till March. Between classes and Order stuff, that’s the soonest we could both go. I can show you on my phone, but I printed the best photos out so I’d have something to actually give you.”

“March is perfect, we’ll be desperate for a break by then.” A grin pulls at his lips as he flips through the photos. “Randall, this looks incredible."

“Yeah, there’s hiking trails and we can go rock climbing, and the lake is safe for swimming.” 

“March is too cold for swimming,” he mumbles, scanning the little description of the property. 

“I bet Tundra would do it.”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

“We could do a Polar _Were_ Plunge! Wait, can werewolves swim?”

Hamish looks up, face slack. “I have no idea.”

“Oh my god, Hamish, we have to find out! For the good of future Knights of St. Christopher!”

“Why would werewolves need to swim?”

“To protect against evil underwater magic, why else?”

“No one is doing magic underwater.”

“Mermaids might be.”

“There’s no such thing as mermaids.”

“How can you say that? We’re werewolves, if we can be werewolves, why can’t people be mermaids? And if leprechauns exist, how much of a stretch is a mermaid?”

Hamish’s eyes roll skyward as he sits up.

“Hamish, wait! What if a mermaid found a hide? Merweremaid? Merwolfmaid?”

“It would be a merwerewolf.”

“That would be so cool! Or, or, maybe mermaids are like werewolves and they get chosen by fish skin instead of a hide.”

“So you’d have a hide _and_ a fish skin?”

“Jack had two hides.”

“And he almost died.”

“Yeah. We really need to stop using him as examples for things.”

Hamish’s legs must be working again because he stands and scoops Randall up and, oh, OK, being carried around _is_ impressive and romantic and hot and the best use of werewolf strength ever. A little warning would have been nice, but Randall’s not complaining. At all. In fact, “Can you carry me everywhere from now on?”

“Considering how often you fall asleep in places where you shouldn’t,” Hamish whispers as they creep into the bathroom, “I already do.”

Hmm. “Guess I should carry you around more often to even things out.”

“That’s not necessary,” Hamish assures him as he sets him down and turns on the water.

“Whatever, you loved it.”

Hamish ignores him and steps into the spray, reaching up to let the water run down his side over the cuts on his hips. In a few hours they’ll be nothing more than faint pink lines, and the bite on his throat will be reduced to nothing more than a smudge that will easily be written off as a shadow. 

After a quick glance in the mirror to check out his own temporary trophies, gingerly poking at the bite on his shoulder and checking out the cuts on his arms - it’s almost exactly like what they did when they bonded which is thrilling and really fucking romantic in a werewolf kind of way - he joins Hamish in the shower, sliding the curtain closed behind him.

They do this a lot, in a million different contexts - apres-kill clean up, post-work out or run or sex, getting ready for their respective classes, warming up, cooling off, pulled muscles and tension headaches, washing off really bad days - but what never changes is the blue glow from the light over the mirror filtering in through the navy shower curtain as the steam curls around them in distorted wisps. It’s a simple but reliable constant, like good morning notes and good night kisses, reaching around each other for soap or shampoo and taking turns standing under the water to rinse off, kissing and holding each other close, sometimes escalating past kissing and sometimes not. 

Tonight - this morning, technically - is one of those ‘hold me close and don’t say a word,’ showers. Randall wishes it was only because they’re head over heels, up to their eyeballs in love and post-sex bliss, but he knows Hamish is thinking about everything he just told Randall. How can he be thinking of anything else? 

He slides his arms under Hamish’s and plasters himself to his body, rests his forehead on his shoulder and takes a deep breath of him, lets the familiar and comforting smell of him fill his lungs because if he’s content and happy and relaxed, Hamish will feel that. Hamish will relax, Hamish’s mind will stop replaying some of the worst years of his life. He’ll stop thinking about everything he’s done wrong and whether the ends justify the means. He’ll just feel Randall, standing against him in their shower, where it’s warm and quiet and safe. 

Fingers trail up and down his arms, ghost across his shoulders and up his neck. Tentative, almost, like Hamish is still back there in his mind and trying to come back to the here and now, trying to decide if they can still have this now that he’s admitted he wasn’t blameless in losing his family. And maybe if Randall nuzzles over Hamish’s scar, gently, just as lightly as Hamish is touching him, and Hamish sighs out a laugh, yes, that’s it, perfect. Just… stay here, with Randall. Don’t go back there. Stay like this. With him. Randall can be his family and his home and everything else. 

Hamish returns the gesture with a brush of his fingers over Randall’s scar, ticklish enough to make him grin and tingly enough to make his heart skip a beat, and how lucky is Randall that he can do things like this for Hamish, and Hamish can do it right back for him? In all the contexts, sex, reassurances, winding each other up and bringing each other back down, pushing them to the edge, pulling them back in. 

They worked for this, Randall knows in the greater scheme of things that he and Hamish had to go through a lot of stuff to get here, that it wasn’t luck, it was timing and growing into each other and pulling back layers of aloof indifference and unnecessary bravado. But it feels like luck. Chance. Fate. Look at how they met, look at what they are, look at Greybeard and Tundra - they have pieces of each other’s _souls_ -, how can Randall be anything other than the luckiest man alive? 

He’s not supposed to say anything. He’s just supposed to hold and be held, but he has to say this one thing, he just has to tell Hamish, “I love you.”

The corner of Hamish’s mouth ticks up. “I love you, too.” 

He doesn’t realize how hard he was leaning against Hamish until the water shuts off and he has to peel himself away to fumble for a towel, which Hamish snatches from him to rub vigorously over his hair knowing full well he’s going to look like a chia pet in the morning. He returns the favor by scrubbing a towel over Hamish’s hair and dropping it over his head while he goes back to bed. Well, that’s the plan, anyway, until Hamish grabs him the moment he’s finishing getting dressed and everything goes dark. Because Hamish is covering his eyes with his hands. 

  
“Um… Hamish…?”

“Just walk,” Hamish whispers into his ear. 

And he says Randall is the ridiculous one in this relationship. Still. It’s… a little adorable. 

There’s a quiet creak as he steps into the hallway, Hamish’s chest bumping against his back as he walks them forward. “OK, small step to your right, two big steps, and you’ll find your present.”

His present’s been in his old room this whole time?

Geez. Randall needs to work on his observational skills. 

As directed, he goes right and takes two big steps, nearly stumbling at the feeling of a thick, plush rug underfoot where there used to be only hardwood. And the room smells different. Woodsy and clean and bright, a little citrusy and earthy. 

The door clicks shut behind them. 

Hamish drops his hands, and Randall’s room has been turned into some kind of a study cave. A really, really nice study cave, with bookcases lining the walls, filled with... medical books. He steps closer to inspect the titles on the bindings and there are books here that he’s been on a waitlist for for _months_. Gross anatomy, the DSM, the ICD, every -ology he could think of, all right here at his fingertips. There’s a large desk and an oversized chair, a projector, a mini fridge, a velvety navy blue couch, a diffuser, which explains the smell, and it’s probably some kind of fancy oil blend to increase concentration while reducing stress or something. 

“The bottom left drawer is full of snacks.” 

Randall turns back to Hamish, leaning against the bookcase and glancing around the room as he goes on, “I know you had a good thing going underneath the table, but I thought… you might be less stressed if you could do more studying at home, closer to us, and not in a place where people can trip over your feet.”

“Hamish,” he breathes, crossing the room to throw his arms around him. “How the hell did you do all this?”

“You’ve been busy and you sleep like a rock, but it was mostly just putting your old furniture in storage and glamouring all the new stuff to look like the old stuff.” He presses a kiss to Randall’s temple. “Is it better than under the table? I tried to match that general aesthetic but you’d be amazed at how much harder that is than it sounds.”

Randall glances around, trying to decide if he succeeded. It’s dark in a cozy kind of way, just like his former study cave. The desk might even be made of the same kind of wood as their table downstairs. There’s really only one way to test the likeness, though. 

He pulls Hamish to the floor and stretches out next to him. The walls are now a muted shade of taupe, neutral but pleasant and, honestly, quite reminiscent of the unfinished wood grain of the underside of the table when it’s not covered in MRI images of random body parts. 

He turns his head towards Hamish and deems it, “Perfect,” as he rolls toward Hamish, resting his cheek on his chest. “You think we can plan a wedding before our trip and turn it into a honeymoon?”

“I thought you wanted a honeymoon on the beach,” Hamish murmurs. 

“That was our werewolf honeymoon, and a lake is like a beach.” He stifles a yawn in Hamish’s shoulder. “I just don’t want to wait a long time. I wanna marry you soon so I can start calling you ‘my husband.’ I’ve been practicing all week.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh,” he says around another yawn. “You should try it. It’s pretty great.”

Lips brush over his ear, “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

Why? They have to get up in, like, four hours. It’ll be worse if he falls asleep now. He should just stay awake, snuggled up with his fiancé (fiancé… ! …), planning their wedding, in his former room that smells old and new and it’s all very zen and wonderful. He should stay awake to enjoy that. He just has to blink a few times so his eyelids will get with the program. Just a few blinks. 


	5. In which Hamish's parents almost ruin Christmas and Randall lets out his murdery side..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys... this is angsty. I'm sorry. But I promise there is a happy ending!

The plan for Christmas morning was to get up at eight, shovel the driveway and walkway so his parents wouldn’t have to walk through seven inches of snow, open presents with the Knights+2 - Randall got everyone holidays socks, Jack’s have Jack Frost and Lilith’s have Pikachu in a Santa hat, it’s all very on-brand -, hide and disguise magic/werewolf stuff, and make food. All of that should have kept him pretty busy until his mom and dad arrived around eleven. 

What actually happens is Randall wakes up feeling way more rested than he should for only getting three hours of sleep, and that’s because it’s ten thirty-eight and he either slept through his alarm or Hamish threw his phone across the room again. 

Wait. When did he move from the … oh, Hamish must have brought him to bed when he fell asleep… 

Hamish is the best. 

But Hamish is also the worst because Randall has been slacking all year around the house and he was genuinely looking forward to contributing via shoveling and making an obscene amount of french toast.

He unravels himself from the duvet and stumbles out the door and down the stairs towards the mouthwatering aroma of bacon and eggs and chives and brown sugar and cinnamon and coffee and, oh hey, someone did the driveway and built a snow … thing, is that supposed to be a snowman? Why does it have bat ears? It looks… is it supposed to be Snorlax?

Jack glances up from where he and Alyssa are nestled together on the couch and raises his mug toward him. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Randall greets, rubbing his eyes. “I was going to help with the shoveling.”

“Call it an engagement present,” he offers, smiling at Alyssa. “You like our snow werewolf?”

Huh. It does kind of look like a werewolf. Vaguely. Sort of. “Not bad.”

“I still think it needs more teeth,” Alyssa mumbles around the rim of her mug. 

It needs more shape in general, but it’s a bit early in the day to be crushing anyone’s artistic spirit. 

Alyssa grabs his hand. “Let’s see that ring in the daylight.”

Randall lets her inspect his ring, grinning when the diamonds catch the sunlight streaming in through the window and sparkle. 

“It’s beautiful,” Alyssa tells him, smiling. “He did good.”

“Did he show it to you guys before he asked me?”

“No,” Jack grunts as he stands and stretches. “He asked us what we thought you’d like and listened to us argue for an hour or something, then he just stood up and said, ‘Thanks, this was really helpful,’ and left.” 

That sounds like Hamish. So do the footsteps coming from the basement stairwell, preceding the typical huff of breath as Hamish rounds the corner, clad in jeans and a cardigan and Christmas socks - polar bears -, and looking pretty damn gorgeous. 

“I was about to come wake you up,” Hamish says in lieu of greeting.

“You should have woken me up when my alarm went off.”

“I didn’t hear your alarm. I just woke up half an hour ago.”

Gabrielle brushes past them with a champagne glass and a brisk, “I tried waking both of you up earlier, and one of you just said, ‘No,’ and disappeared under the blankets. The other one said you’d be up in five minutes and finally made an appearance an hour later, so next time we’re having company, don’t fuck yourselves into a coma the night before!” as she makes a beeline to the bar. 

That thing with the blankets sounds like something he might do even though he has no memory of doing it. It would also explain how he got all wrapped up in the duvet. 

Hamish rolls his eyes. “What did you think we were going to do last night?”

Alyssa waves him off. “It’s fine. Everything’s done, except the food but Lil and Nicole have that handled.”

Randall frowns. “Lilith can cook?”

“I’m chopping and supervising and taste testing!” Lilith’s head pops into the doorway. “Did you like our present?”

The present in question, still in its bag in Hamish’s car, is a bottle of pina colada flavored lube - Randall tasted it, very coconutty -, a pair of padded leather wrist cuffs, and a remote controlled vibrating anal plug. The lube is self explanatory and that last one is obviously from Gabrielle and a little nod to her saving his proposal - if you can call it that, given that Hamish was planning to propose the entire time and she knew it - but the cuffs are all Lilith and they go all the way back to the sex bet.

Ah, yes. 

The sex bet. 

The sex bet that wasn’t officially settled until about five months ago - he tried to tell them it was dumb to bet on their sex life right after they got together, but did anyone listen to him? Noooo, of course not, no one ever listens to Randall - when he and Hamish got interrupted mid-fuck by ringing that turned out to be some Medicums trying to make a golem, and the thing about that particular fuck was that Hamish had wondered out loud right before if Randall might like getting tied up since he likes it when Hamish pins his hands down and stuff. So they tried it with one of Hamish's neck ties. And Randall liked it. A lot. 

Or he would have if they didn’t get interrupted and Hamish’s tie hadn’t given him mild rope burn, which he didn’t realize until after Greybeard took down the golem and Randall was standing naked in the woods, and obviously his friends were concerned when they noticed the marks until he started blushing and stammering out a really bad explanation while Hamish did absolutely nothing - thanks, Hamish -, and then Lilith screamed, “I WON!” 

So the, uh, cuffs will be nice. Very nice. No more rope burn. Tie burn? Skin irritation, let’s just go with skin irritation. No more skin irritation. Except for the biting and scratching. Not that Randall can do any of that if he’s wearing the wrist cuffs. Well, he could break out of them, but where's the fun in that? 

And now Randall is blushing and Lilith is cackling and there’s a car approaching roughly the same size as his parents’. Great timing.

Randall slumps forward with a miserable groan till his forehead hits Hamish’s chest. “Please tell me there’s coffee.”

“There’s coffee,” Hamish assures him, and then announces loudly, “No more sex talk, and absolutely no magic or werewolf stuff. Randall’s parents are normal people and we don’t want to scare them off.”

“Oh, please,” Gabrielle groans as she pours champagne over pomegranate juice in her glass. “Ask Maria about that time she got her Amazon package mixed up with Randall’s.”

“Please don’t,” Randall begs. 

“She already told me that one,” Hamish says with a smirk. 

Of course she did. And now he is blushing harder. Great. Absolutely fantastic. 

To save himself from combusting, he darts to the front hallway to get the door for his parents. 

“Merry Christmas!” his mom greets, rushing up the stairs to hug him. “Did you just wake up?”

“Sort of,” he admits, taking her coat from her. “How were the roads?”

“Not bad till we got into the woods,” his dad huffs, shrugging off his own coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. “You guys should get a snowmobile.”

Randall pauses in hanging up his mom’s coat for her because they really should consider that. Then again, they don’t leave the house for much, and they don’t get many visitors. This might be the first time they’ve had anyone outside of the Order or their immediate circle here. Everyone who’s come through that door was chosen by a hide or knows magic, and most of the latter did not come in peace. Except for Jack’s grandpa. Maybe Randall should have asked Jack if he was OK with this. Granted brunch wasn’t his idea, he thinks… he thinks it was Gabrielle’s, actually, which is surprising because strained family relationships are something she and Hamish have in common. 

Actually all of his friends’ relationships with their families range from non-existent to complicated bordering on hostile, and yet here are his parents, wandering into the living room so Gabrielle can make them mimosas, and Lilith and Nicole come out of the kitchen to say hi, and his dad is looking around curiously and saying something to Hamish about architecture - his dad knows nothing about architecture, he just really likes home renovation shows -, and his mom is giving out hugs like Oprah dishes out minivans, and maybe being each other’s family doesn’t mean they don’t all miss having a real one.

Hamish raises his eyebrows at him and he shakes his head, mouthing, ‘I’m good,’ as he head heads to the kitchen. He yells over his shoulder, “Anyone else want coffee?” but his parents are too busy smothering her friends with parental affection and his friends are too busy soaking it up. He’ll just grab one for his mom and himself and if anyone else wants one… oh well, he only has two hands, anyway. 

The whole process of pouring coffee for himself and his mom, splashing milk into both and dropping sugar into his mom’s, can’t take more than four minutes at the most but when he returns to the living room, his mom is on the couch with the girls, talking excitedly with her hands, and his dad is playing foosball with Hamish and Jack. Against Hamish and Jack, actually, which means he’s going to lose miserably. 

“Randall!” his dad yells over his shoulder. “Is this game rigged?”

“It’s two against one, Dad,” he shouts back, settling into Hamish’s armchair and curling up around his coffee. “The odds are not in your favor.”

“If you lose, you’re walking home, honey!” his mom yells over her shoulder. “So, Randall, the girls were telling me about you falling asleep under the table.”

“Oh, I used to study under there, but Hamish turned my old room into a study cave so I probably won’t be under there long enough to fall asleep anymore.”

She blinks at him. “You studied under the table?”

“OK, listen, you can tape stuff to the bottom of the table and then you just stare up at it! It’s brilliant, Mom, everyone should do it.”

“That’s not...” she sighs, shaking her head. “What is a study cave?”

“It’s a dark, quiet place used for nothing but studying and things related to studying. Like cat naps. Or crying, but I haven’t done that yet.”

“Yet?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking it’ll happen when I take boards. Or during clinicals.”

His mom looks torn between deep, deep concern and laughter. “Thank god someone wants to marry you so I don’t have to deal with that.”

Nicole pats her hand. “You’ve done your part.”

“Very well,” Lilith adds. “He’s honestly the most well-adjusted person living in this house.”

“Excuse me,” Gabrielle snaps, “there is no way I’m handling my shit worse than someone who fell asleep and left the shower running for four hours.”

“Were you in the shower when this happened?” his mom cries, then waves her hands like she can erase the question. “Nevermind, don’t answer that, I can’t decide which one is worse.”

Maybe Randall can drown himself in coffee. 

From the foosball tables comes a long, anguished, “Noooo!” and the sound of Jack’s hissed out, “Yes!” and Hamish’s, “Nice!”, followed by a high five.

But from outside comes the sound of a car approaching. A big one, definitely some kind of SUV, can’t be going more than fifteen miles per hour. Like they’re looking for something…

Randall gets up, motioning for Gabrielle to stay and says to his mom, “I’m going to go check something. Be right back.”

Hamish is already sliding his boots on when Randall gets to the front hallway. “Stay here.”

Randall rolls his eyes as pulls on his own boots and steps out onto the porch into the really freaking cold air, holy shit!

The door closes with a sluggish thump behind him just as a red Mercedes SUV lumbers down the driveway. He’s never seen it before and the plates are from New York, and the only person he knows who has ever spent any time in New York is… 

Hamish grabs his elbow. “It’s my parents.”

… what?

Randall turns to look at him. “How do your parents know where we live?”

Hamish’s eyes narrow as the car pulls to a stop. “That is an excellent question.”

Randall catches a whiff of black cherry and almond tinged with something floral, cloying even through the distance. Remnants of red wine. Latex and plastic, wool with the barest hint of cigar. Something… something rotting, almost. Decaying. Something… sick. Really sick. 

“Hamish, I think -”

“He’s dying.”

He glances at Hamish, standing like his spine is made of steel, looking for all the world like he’s about to go to war. And if Hamish goes to war, Randall goes to war. 

Hamish leans down to whisper, “Either they're here to tell me he's dying in person, or it's to scare you out of marrying me. Either way, they are going to make some very insulting comments and accusations toward both of us, and you’re going to want to rip out their throats, but I am begging you to keep it together.” 

That seems… ominous to Randall and unreasonable to Greybeard, but he knows better than anyone how this is going to go down. “OK. No throat crushing."

“Thanks.” Hamish gives him a quick kiss and nudges him towards the door. “I’ll be right there.”

“I don’t-”

“Randall,” he sighs, “please go back inside.”

That’s not how this works. It doesn’t matter if they’re walking into the store or chasing down bad magic, Randall always goes first, that’s his job. He checks things out. He makes sure it’s safe, because this doesn’t feel safe. He doesn’t know what they’re doing here, how they found the house, why they’re here, on Christmas morning when they’ve never made an effort to see Hamish in the past. And he can’t stand the way Hamish’s jaw tensed when their car pulled up and how his heart rate kicked up a notch. It’s not fear, he knows what a scared Hamish looks like, this isn’t that, but he doesn’t know what this is, what version of Hamish this is, and that just makes it worse. 

He catches Hamish’s hand and squeezes it. “Just trying to save you from choking on your mom’s perfume.”

Hamish smiles at him. Sort of smiles. He probably thinks he’s smiling and maybe people who don’t know him that well would buy it. 

Randall lets Hamish’s hand slide out of his as he turns one way and Randall turns the other to go back inside. 

Jack grabs the door for him. “Who -”

“Hamish’s parents.” He jerks his head for him and his dad to follow him back into the living room and explains to his dad, “It’s complicated.”

“Oh,” his mom breathes, twisting to look towards the door. “Should we go help in the kitchen…?”

“Yeah,” Alyssa says, nodding slowly like she’s warming up to her own idea. “Yeah, let’s give them some space.”

Gabrielle scoffs and picks up her pomegranate mimosa. “This is our house. They should leave, not us.”

“They’re not staying long,” Randall says sharply. 

He crosses the room to watch out the window as the driver side door opens. A woman who can only be Hamish’s mother - same eyes, same hair color although hers has a lot of highlights to make it look lighter - gets out and calls to her son, “What a charming little set up!”

“We said Saturday,” Hamish says sharply, passing her completely and opening the passenger side door. “What are you- Dad, hey, let me…”

He stumbles back, hands up placatingly, laughing without a trace of humor or warmth. There’s some shuffling in the snow, the door slams, and Hamish’s dad is a hulking figure, broad like Hamish but heavier, lumbering and leaning heavily on a cane, too heavily to be a mild or lingering injury. 

Hamish reaches for his dad again and gets swatted away, roughly enough that Greybeard’s hackles go up, but Randall’s more focused on how his hand shakes as the cane swings through the air. Tremors, maybe. Pain. Stress. Side effects from whatever medicine he’s taking. 

Lilith’s reflection in the window blurs the scene. “Why didn’t Hamish tell us his dad is sick?”

“You know how Hamish is,” Randall mumbles, craning his neck as they disappear from view, clomping onto the porch. The wooden railing groans under the weight of someone leaning most of their weight on it. “He’s basically a cat. When something is wrong, he just wanders off to suffer in silence and pops up later like nothing happened.”

“He’s going to be mad if he finds out you called him a cat.” 

“Then he should stop acting like a cat.”

  
She scoffs. “Timber’s pissed.”

“Timber is always pissed.” He steps back, bumping her shoulder as the door creaks open. “Greybeard is, too, for what it’s worth.”

He makes it to the hallway just as Hamish’s dad throws his coat over the stairwell and up close, Randall hates to admit he gets why someone would question Hamish’s parentage because Hamish looks absolutely nothing like this man. The only vaguely familiar thing about him is whe way his eyes pass over the hallway, darting up the climbing wall with a frown that deepens when he spots Randall. Even though Hamish has perfected the art of a vacant, neutral expression and leans more toward annoyed or exasperated than insulted, if he was truly offended, Hamish might make that face. 

But what really gets Randall is how sick he really looks up close. Pale skin, heavily drooping eyes, dry lips. He doesn’t smell like anything, either. Just… wet wool pants and dying organs and plastic, medical grade plastic, he thinks. 

Hamish’s hand flattens against the small of his back. “Randall, this is my father, Malcolm. Dad, this is my fiance, Randall.” 

Randall offers his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Malcolm Duke grabs his hand and, oh, OK, he’s doing that thing where you size someone up by squeezing their hand too hard and try to make them uncomfortable. Cute. Especially because Malcolm’s knuckles turn white and it still just feels like his hand is giving Randall’s hand a hug, isn’t that cute? 

Malcolm drops his hand, squinting at Randall and says to Hamish, “At least he’s not one of those effeminate types.”

He disguises Greybeard’s snarl in a laugh. Hamish’s fingers curl into his shirt, an apology or protective gesture, Randall’s not sure which one. 

“What do you do, Randall?”

“I’m in med school,” he replies, watching carefully for a reaction suggesting he knows or doesn’t know that he’s dying, but all he gets is a grunt. 

Hamish’s mom swoops in to kiss Hamish’s cheek. It leaves magenta lipstick on his cheek, and neither Randall nor Greybeard like that one bit. 

She extends a hand to Randall. “Anna Duke, nice to meet you…?”

“Randall,” he supplies, shaking her hand. “Nice to, uh, meet you.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, too, Randall.” She gives him a long onceover, taking in Randall and all of his sweatpants and Christmas sock glory, lingering on the ring. “I see congratulations are in order.”

Malcolm says to Hamish, “Did you get one for yourself already?”

“I proposed, too,” Randall says sharply, but he can’t help smiling. “We, uh, wound up proposing to each other, sort of.”

Anna grabs Hamish’s hand, mouth parting on a gasp. “This is… lovely.”

It’s the most sincere she’s sounded since they pulled up to the house, but Hamish’s eyes cut from her to Malcolm and back. “We weren’t expecting to see you until Saturday, so I’m sorry to say we made plans for today and you won’t be able to stay long.”

“Did those plans involve sleeping?” Anna raises her eyebrows and jerks her head towards Randall. “Or did we interrupt celebrating your engagement, I - Hamish, my god, what happened to your neck?”

Oh shit… 

Hamish blinks like he’s confused, fingers finding the scar instantly. “I’ve always had this.”

“You most certainly have not,” she gasps. “We would have had that lasered off.”

“It’s too close to an artery,” Hamish lies. 

Anna buys it, though, hand creeping up her own neck like she’s worried she’ll grow a scar of her own just by looking at it. “Good thing you’re reasonably attractive otherwise.”

See, Randall’s parents and friends joke all the time with him about being a disaster, so he knows sarcasm or teasing when he hears it and she isn’t joking. She’s completely serious. 

“Not to mention filthy rich,” Malcolm grumbles. “Isn’t that right, Randall?”

There are a lot of things Randall wants to say to that - “Actually, I stay because he’s an animal in bed,” or “What, Hamish, you’re rich? And you didn’t tell me?”, or, “You’re stressing out my fiancé, get the fuck out of my house” - but one look at Hamish saps all the spite out of him. 

He leans back against Hamish a little harder and says to the Dukes, “I’d tell you everything about him I find attractive, but we’d be here a while and we have plans.” 

The fingers fisting in his shirt loosen and disappear altogether. Before he can mourn the loss or read into it, Hamish’s arm winds across his shoulders, folding around his neck so his fingers dangle idly over Randall’s scar. Even through his shirt, even with space between Hamish’s fingertips and Randall’s skin, he feels him, crystal clear. His anxiety over their current situation grows tangible, Randall smells it in the air, his scent going sharper. He’s not scared, scared is a heavier, more lingerie smell. This is acidic, this almost burns, this is… this is threatened. 

Anna smiles and it doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “He’s always been a charmer, our Hamish.”

“That explains the parade of young men and women coming in and out of his bedroom every night,” Malcolm mumbles. 

If their tactic is to bring up every scandalous thing in Hamish’s past, Randall feels sorry for them because he knows all of them. Most of them. But it’s kind of fun to pretend he’s a lovesick idiot. Well… OK, it’s fun to pretend to be an oblivious lovesick idiot… whatever, the Dukes don’t know what he knows and it’s fun.

He grins up at Hamish. “That _does_ explain a lot…”

Hamish winks at him. 

“Too bad about that mood disorder,” Anna sighs. “It was a mood disorder, right, Hamish? That’s what they diagnosed you with in the hospital?”

That’s another trap - sneakiness must run in the family - but if he didn’t know it, the spike in Hamish’s heartbeat would have told him. So Randall just shrugs. “I’ve got my own issues. We manage.”

“Do you now?” Her eyebrows lift fractionally. “Were you ever hospitalized for it?”

“No, but,” Randall tilts his head ever so slightly to bump Hamish’s jaw, “did you know mental health stigma is one of the biggest deterrents to seeking help for psychiatric disorders?”

Anna’s lips purse. “I did not.”

“Oh. I thought that was sort of a no brainer.” Randall shrugs again. “Guess it’s a medical school thing.”

“How’s his drinking?” 

“I stopped two years ago,” Hamish answers sharply. “As entertaining as... whatever this is, I have to insist that you leave.”

“Relax, darling,” Anna laughs, rolling her eyes as she breezes past them towards the living room. “We were in the area and thought we’d swing by. Oh, I see we’ve crashed a little party!”  
  


Malcolm shuffles after her, biting at Hamish, “We need to talk.”

He doesn’t elaborate, just continues wobbling after his wife at a slow, unsteady pace that has Randall ready to lunge forward and catch him any second because there’s no way he isn’t going to fall, but once he disappears from view, he’s a little more concerned about Hamish falling because he sags against him so hard Randall has to straighten up just to keep them upright. 

“That went OK.”

“As well as can be expected,” Hamish mumbles. “I’m sorry they’re awful.”

“It’s not your fault.”

He thinks Hamish says ‘debatable’ but it sort of sounds like ‘defayffafful’ since he’s trying to suffocate himself in Randall’s shirt. 

Randall reaches over his shoulder and pats his head. “You distract my parents, I’ll lure yours outside and Greybeard will eat them.”

Hamish’s head lifts at that. “No eating my parents.”

“What about that memory dust?” Randall suggests, rubbing lipstick off of Hamish’s cheek. “We could make them think they talked us out of getting married and then they’ll leave.”

“I don’t just carry _pulveris memoria_ everywhere with me.”

“Really? Seems like everyone else in the Order does… What if we just -”

“I already told you, no killing my parents.”

“But we want to, Hamish. We really, _really_ want to.”

“Be good,” Hamish whispers and kisses the top of his head. “Both of you. I’ll talk to my father, they’ll leave, and everything will be fine.”

Anna Duke has apparently found the bar and has made herself what smells like champagne plus a splash of orange juice, which sloshes precariously as she goes around the room introducing herself. Randall’s parents look perplexed, Gabrielle is judging her outfit - her nose wrinkles, she must hate it -, Alyssa is nibbling on a piece of pineapple cut into the shape of a star, Jack is trying to be polite while screaming ‘What the fuck is happening’ with his eyes, Nicole is the only thing holding Lilith back from killing Hamish’s parents - honestly, Lilith, same -, and Malcolm Duke has about three fingers of scotch in a glass and he’s pouring out another, which he holds out to Hamish. 

“A toast,” he explains. “To your engagement. One won’t kill you.”

Hamish snorts. 

“You got something to say?” Malcolm snaps. 

“You already know what I’m going to say. I am much more interested in what’s so important it couldn’t wait until Saturday.”

Anna sinks into the chair across from Randall’s mom - Hamish’s chair, she shouldn’t be sitting in it - and says to her, “They make quite a pair, don’t they?”

“They do,” Randal’s mom agrees, smiling reassuringly at them. “Hamish is a wonderful man, you must be very proud of him.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes, whole body swaying with the motion. “Proud enough of himself for all of us now that he’s ‘sober’, isn’t he?”

Randall glares at him and asks Hamish, “Do you want to drink that?”

“No.”

“Great!” He snatches the glass out of Malcolm’s hand and passes it to someone, he doesn’t pay attention who. “We appreciate the sentiment, all the same.”

“Oh, so he’s your sobriety coach, too?” Malcolm laughs and takes a long sip of his drink. “Give it a few years and that leash starts to feel like a noose.”

The lights flicker.

Jack hisses at Lilith, “Knock it off! We can’t just electrocute everyone we hate!”

She scowls at him. “Why not?”

“Seriously? Why do I need to explain that to you?”

“I think they taste better when they’re electrocuted,” Gabrielle mumbles. “It’s like having a barbecue.”

“Guys!” Randall snaps. “Not now!”

“Sorry…” they all murmur. 

Randall’s dad looks between Malcolm and Anna. “What is your problem with my son, exactly?”

“Oh no, no no, we’re sure Roman is wonderful,” Anna says quickly, gesturing towards _Randall_. “There’s a bit of a question regarding Hamish’s inheritance after they get married, though. We’re just hoping to clear that up.”

There’s a flurry of confused glances and whispered ‘What?’s from their friends, eyes staring him down and waiting for an explanation, but Randall is as lost as they are because he thought the whole point of this visit was to psych him out. 

“Hamish, is there a more private place where you and your father can speak?” Anna looks around. “An office, maybe, or -”

“I’m dying.”

Drawing that conclusion is one thing, but hearing it out loud is a totally different matter. The whispers turn to gasps, confusion to shock and concern and sympathy, and Hamish barely flinches but he does flinch. His eyes dart between his mother and father a few times as he turns the news over in his mind, over and over till he can make it make sense. 

He shifts his weight, shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans - they’re shaking, Randall catches it but he probably wasn’t supposed to notice it -, clears his throat. “How long?”

“Not very.” Malcolm stares into his glass and adds, “I want you to take a paternity test.”

… what?

“If you’re not my biological son, you’re not entitled to the inheritance. It belongs to the family.”

What the fuck is happening?

“You can keep whatever you have left from the first payout. I just want my family to be taken care of when I’m gone, and I’d like to use that money if it’s not yours, which I strongly suspect it isn’t.”

What. The. Actual. Fuck. 

“I would also ask that you wait to get married until this matter is resolved. It shouldn’t be more than a few weeks, but I understand you might have made plans already.”

What the fucking fuck?!?

Hamish looks like he’s experiencing a similar phenomenon, blinking rapidly, expression shifting between shock and laughter, and Randall gets it because this is… this is fucked up. This isn’t fun anymore, this isn’t right.

He settles on silence, either by choice or by inability. The whole room goes silent except for bubbles fizzing away in the champagne, the tick-tick-tick of the timer in Nicole’s pocket, the pipes groaning from the cold, all things outside of their control because if there was any justice or decency in the universe, everything would be quiet and stop, this would all just stop.

Randall squeezes Hamish’s shoulder and says to Malcolm, “We don’t want your money.”

“It’s a legally binding agreement,” Malcolm says in a voice that is way too calm for the situation. 

“Then we’ll give it back,” Randall cries. 

He shakes his head. “I want to know for myself.”

“Oh my god, you people are insane,” Randall groans, staring at the ceiling. “Can’t you just ask your wife?”

“It’s possible.” Anna’s glass clinks against the coffee table as she sets it down and rises to her feet. “Here’s some free marriage advice, boys - when your spouse tells you they’re lonely and need you to be home more often, be home more often.”

Lilith mumbles out of the corner of her mouth, “Do not take marriage advice from these people.”

“What if I am?” Randall’s head snaps back to Hamish, staring unblinkingly at his father. “If I take the test and it proves I am your son, then what?”

Malcolm glances at Anna out of the corner of his eye as she stomps past and stands up. “Then I’m sorry.”

“That’s it?” A laugh stutters out of Hamish. He scrubs his hand over his jaw, shaking his head. “You’re sorry? After everything you’ve-”

“I let you live in my house,” Malcolm snaps. “You got a damn good education, nice cars, vacations, you would’ve had my firm if you didn’t piss it down the drain, and I didn’t owe you shit. I did out of -”

“Fear of scandal and speculation?” 

“- the goodness of my heart, you better watch your goddamn mouth.”

“You were absent at best and criminally negligent at your worst.”

“How dare you-”

“You could have done this at any point in time, why now?” Hamish demands. “Because you’re dying? Because I’m finally happy and this is your last chance to punish me? I’m sorry I took your money when I had no interest in taking over the firm, but it was a stupid plan, I was just a stupid eighteen year old kid and you never should have put that kind of responsibility and pressure on me.”

Malcolm points at Hamish with his cane and says to Randall, “Is this the kind of man you want to marry? A man who won’t take responsibility for his own actions? What kind of father would this man be?”

Game fucking over. 

Randall wrenches the cane out of his hand and snaps it over his knee, tossing the pieces to the floor. “Get out of our house.”

Randall’s dad grabs his elbow. “Hey, let’s -”

“Your house, is it?” Malcolm laughs. 

“I fucking live here, don’t I?” he says through his teeth, shrugging his dad off and stepping closer till he’s right in Malcolm’s face. “He’s not the one on the leash. I am. And he is the only reason I haven’t broken every bone in your body and dropped your ass so deep in the woods it would take _years_ for anyone to find you.”

“You think I’m scared of dying?”

“I never said I’d kill you,” Randall growls. Greybeard’s mouth waters when he smells Malcolm getting scared. “I hope you live long enough to realize what a shitty father you’ve been and regret it, but if you ever come back here, if you call him, email him, I swear to god, if you so much as breathe his name, I will hunt you down.”

Hamish’s fingers are back in his shirt, shaking but firm in their grip as he pulls him back. “Have your lawyer call me with the details.”

Malcolm gives Hamish a long, empty look - say something nice to him, tell him you’re sorry, say thank you, please just say one kind thing to him, you must have loved him once, how could you not, just say you’re happy for him - and hobbles away. He takes his coat from his wife, hovering in the doorway, and continues toward the door without turning back.

Randall knows if he looks at Hamish, his eyes will be glued to the spot where his father just stood like he’s still waiting for a response. An explanation. Something. Anything. And if Randall looks at him, if he sees that look on his face, he won’t be able to stop Greybeard from chasing Malcolm down and making good on their threat. It would be really, _really_ satisfying but it wouldn’t fix anything. It wouldn’t change anything. Malcolm will still be a cruel, vindictive, coward and Hamish will still be waiting for a response. 

Anna lets out a long, slow breath and says to Hamish, “If we’d done the test when you were a child, it could have ended in divorce and God knows what would have become of you if I raised you on my own. I made what I thought was the best possible decision at the time. I never intended for things to turn out the way they did.”

“Is that an apology?” Hamish asks from over Randall’s shoulder.

She makes a move to come closer but Randall steps more squarely in front of Hamish, jerking his chin toward the door, and she smiles. Sadly, Randall thinks, but he’s fresh out of forgiveness or sympathy for anyone involved in Hamish’s childhood at this point. 

“An apology is an admission of guilt or wrongdoing, and neither of those apply to this situation,” she says, looking past Randall’s shoulder at her son. “If you are ever brave or foolish enough to give parenthood a spin, I hope you never have to choose between your child and each other. Or yourself.”

If Randall rolls his eyes any harder, he’ll be able to label all the anatomical sections of his own brain, but Hamish’s fingers clenching on his shirt pull him back to the more pressing matter of tracking Anna’s footsteps all the way to the door, down the porch steps, and out to the car.

The timer goes off and everyone jumps. Nicole yells, “Shit!” as she scrambles to turn it off, but it buzzes right out of her hands and into the couch cushions, which sends everyone up and off and digging into the nooks and crannies to fish it out.

Randall turns and grabs Hamish’s face in his hands. “We’re going with ‘Carpio-Duke’ and he’s going to roll over in his grave every time someone says.”

Hamish’s mouth twitches like he’s trying to smile and just can’t manage it. “That works.”

“They don’t deserve you.” He brushes his thumbs over Hamish’s cheeks. “You know that, right? You’re the best friend and boyfriend and were- husband-to-be that anyone could ask for, so I know you would have been a good son if they ever gave you a chance.”

“They think they did.” 

“They’re horrible people.”

“They’re my parents, Randall,” he says around a long, quiet sigh with the barest hint of tremor to it. “Well, she’s my mother. We know that much is true.”

“Defending them only proves my point,” Randall insists, pulling him closer till their foreheads meet and lowering his voice. “I’m really sorry, Hamish.”

Hamish’s hands curl loosely around his wrists. “I know I told you not to do it, but it was really hot when you threatened him.”

“You never said not to threaten them.”

“Don’t argue with me when I’m trying to deflect.”

“I was letting you deflect, chrysHamthemum!”

“Not bad."

“Really? Would you call it… Hamtastic?”

“I’d call it whatever the opposite of that is.”

“Aw, my bad. I’m asHamished of myself.”

“For that one, you should be,” Hamish mutters, fond exasperation working its way back into his tone. “Are you planning to keep this up for the rest of our lives?”

Randall nods and he barely catches Hamish mumble, “Good,” before he’s pulled into a tight hug. The next part he hears loud and clear, “I can’t talk about it right now.”

“We don’t have to,” Randall murmurs, stealing a hand under Hamish’s sweater. 

“Of course we will,” Hamish sighs. “Because your mom is going to fuss over me and your dad is going to make a lot of bad jokes and our friends are going to try to make me feel better, and -”

“I will be right here with you. So if you don’t want to talk, I’ll talk. I love talking. I’m so good at it.” That finally, _finally_ gets a chuckle. Reluctant, sure, but a laugh all the same. “And if you need a break, all you have to do is squeeze my hand and we’ll take a walk, or go to the kitchen, or you can go be by yourself for a little while or something, and no one is going to think less of you for it, but I’ll make up an excuse if you need one. Whatever you need, Hamish, I’ll be there.”

“I need a Xanax and a bottle of Jack,” Hamish mumbles, bumping his head against Randall’s. “Can you say that thing about breaking his bones again? I think that would make me feel better.”

Randall grins and leans close enough for his lips to brush against Hamish’s ear. “If they ever come back here, I am going to break every. Single. Bone. In their bodies. And I am going to leave them in the woods to rot or for Midnight and Timber to finish them off.”

Hamish shivers as he steps back and turns Randall’s face towards his with a single finger. “I love when you get all murdery and possessive.”

“Gotta protect what’s mine, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a quick, hard kiss to his lips. “So. You want my mom to fuss over you or should we eat first?”

It’s a moot point because Randall’s mom is already approaching with open arms and a sad smile. 

“It’s a good thing this happened after you got engaged or else I would have adopted you on the spot and you never would've been able to get married,” she says, wrapping Hamish in her arms. “I’m sorry your mom is a stone cold bitch and your dad is a narcissistic asshole. You deserve so much more than that.”

“Thanks, Maria,” Hamish hisses, wincing, “but I think you’re crushing my spleen.”

“Randall, is that one important?”

“All of his organs are important, Mom,” Randall groans. “Hey, about what I said-”

“Oh, honey, it’s fine,” she insists, releasing Hamish from her death grip, “I once told a girl who was flirting with your dad that if she looked at him one more time, I was going to stab her eyes out with a mascara wand.”

Gabrielle gasps from across the room. “Can you adopt me instead?”

“Done!” she announces, grinning at Randall. “You always wanted a little sister.”

Randall has no recollection of that, but he’s also been living with the Knights for a hot minute so maybe being surrounded by his pack soothed the part of his soul that craved siblings. Or told it to shut the fuck up because they’re the worst.

“Hamish,” his dad says with a long sigh, “I have a lot of thoughts about what happened in there, but I want you to know my opinion of you has not changed. I know Maria’s hasn’t, either. I just have one question.”

Before Randall can argue that this really isn’t a good time to do this, Hamish says over him, “That’s fine.”

Please be a dumb joke, please be a dumb joke, come on, Dad, you can’t possibly think Hamish is anything other than the best thing that ever happened to Randall… 

“What _is_ that scar on your neck from?”

How weird would it look if Randall stuck his face out the window? That would be weird, right? But would it be weirder than the way his face is flushing? 

“Oh,” Hamish laughs, “it really is just a birthmark.”

He stares at Hamish, eyes narrowed, and slowly shakes his head.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

“I just can’t believe…”

Randall just threatened to almost-murder someone and now his dad is going to find out he left a bite mark on Hamish’s neck, holy shit, this is bad. This is-

“Your mom didn’t remember her own son’s birthmark.”

Well, that’s because it’s not a birthmark. It’s a werewolf mating bite. He and Hamish are werewolves. They’re werewolf-married. Oh god, that’s worse than just saying he bit Hamish. Damnit, damnit, damnit!

“Hamish,” Randall’s dad sighs, grabbing his shoulder, “your life is so tragic."

“It’s getting better.”

“I have to hug you now.”

“Oh, OK,” Hamish says easily, glaring at Randall over his shoulder in a way that could mean, ‘Why the hell did you put it on my neck?’ - he’s the one who told Randall to bite him wherever - or ‘A little help would have been nice’ - did he really think Randall was going to contribute anything meaningful to that conversation?

Whatever the glare means, all Randall’s got is an apologetic grin and a mini cheese danish from the snack tray, which he offers to Hamish as penance. It is accepted with an eye roll and a nip to Randall’s fingers in the process. It’s probably not a flirty or romantic gesture but Randall can honestly only interpret biting as affectionate now. It’s Greybeard’s fault. 

Randall’s dad claps Hamish on the back one more time before heading up to the study cave. “You’re a good one. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

“Thank you,” he says with a smile, grabbing Randall’s shoulder and steering him toward the kitchen. “We’ll get the food.”

As soon as they’re out of human hearing range, he growls into Randall’s ear, “Next time we have to permanently maim each other, do it somewhere less visible on my body.”

“I just wanted people to know you were taken."

“You’re lucky I find that adorable for some reason.”

“Werewolves?”

“Werewolves,” Hamish agrees with a sigh. And a smile. 


	6. In which the future is bright...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff and all the possibilities, which is exactly what I wish for all of you in 2021 :)

It takes a few hours, several plates of food, many cups of coffee and mocktails, and no small amount of touching - Randall has his hand in Hamish’s hair, rubbing his back, curled around his thigh, throughout the entirety of brunch - but Hamish eventually relaxes. Once Hamish relaxes, their friends relax, and once the young people relax, Randall’s parents relax. The only one who can’t relax is Randall, which is why he volunteers to do dishes while everyone reconvenes on the couch to digest and watch _Die Hard_ and probably reveal more embarrassing or incriminating things about Randall. 

He could probably cast a cleaning spell on all of the dishes, but there’s something relaxing and methodical about scrubbing pans, and he could use that right about now since Graybeard is itching for a fight, run, hunt, anything to burn off pent up steam. And Randall isn’t feeling much better. In the hours since Hamish’s parents left, he keeps thinking up more things he should have done differently to keep it from escalating to the point where Hamish got hurt. 

Misstep #1 - Randall should never have let them into the house. He should have gone outside ahead of Hamish and said, “Wrong house, sorry, bye!” or wolfed out and scared them into leaving. Granted he’d have to out himself to his parents, so maybe that second one isn’t such a good idea. 

Misstep #2 - Randall should not have let them past the front hallway once they made it into the house. 

He rolls his shoulders and redoubles his efforts on the pan he’s scrubbing.

Misstep #3 - Randall shouldn’t have snapped the cane, he should have snapped Malcolm’s neck. He’s dying anyway. It would be a faster death than he deserves. 

Misstep #4 - Randall shouldn’t have broken that cane and threatened Anna in front of his parents. He’s really, really lucky they haven’t stopped to think about the force of strength required to snap a cane like that in half.

Misstep #5 - You know what, this isn’t helping.

He tosses the rag into the sink and forces himself to take a deep breath, but he wants to _do_ something. He wants to fix this, he wants… what the hell is wrong with Hamish’s dad that he couldn’t just...just love him? How could he have watched baby Hamish grow into toddler Hamish and then big kid Hamish and never once felt any sort of affection toward him? And how could his mom put him through this, how could she show up here, on Christmas, the day after she _knew_ he was getting engaged and ruin all of this for him? What kind of person does this stuff to their kid?

And speaking of kids, Anna had no right to be giving them parenting advice. Or marriage advice, but the parenting advice bothers him more. 

And, speaking of kids again, is that even… can they have that? 

Would Hamish want that, if they can? 

Does Randall want that?

Are they going to live long enough to even consider that?

Hamish has been a werewolf for just shy of ten years now. It’s not like he has an expiration date or anything. They’re careful. They’re working with the Order instead of against it, that helps a lot, but Bashmet is still out there. There are still bad Practitioners and demons and necromancers and who knows what else. And that’s just the magic stuff, there’s still all the normal ways they can die if their injuries are severe enough. Gunshots. Car accidents. Plane crashes. Drowning. Suffocating. 

You know what, this isn’t helping either. 

But the thing about kids… Randall never really thought about it beyond watching a movie and thinking about what he’d do in that particular situation if it was his kid. He likes kids. He’s good with them on the rare occasions when he interacts with them, but up until two years ago, he felt like a kid himself, so why would he think about having them? And he’s never been with someone he could picture himself spending his life with, so none of his romantic musings ever got that far. And then he became a Knight and he can joke all he wants about being a Den Parent, but kids… actual kids… Jesus Christ, a baby… 

If Randall lets himself think about it, he could see Hamish being a really good parent. Their kid would be so damn smart and articulate and, geez, they’d probably argue with their teachers and skip two grades and get into all kinds of shenanigans. 

If he thinks about Hamish holding a baby, smiling down at them and cradling their head in his hand - Hamish has big hands, his hand would cover a baby’s head -, his chest gets so tight he can’t breathe. 

And Randall… oh man, Randall as a parent… 

He’d… god, he’d probably… 

He’d probably buy all those little baby sweatpants and tiny sneakers and those onesies with lion manes. No, actually, he’d be standing in a store and holding up two different articles of clothing to a baby and trying to decide which one they liked better even though babies probably don’t care about clothes because he wants his kid to know they always have a choice and he’ll always love them and respect them no matter what. Even over something as dumb as clothes. That’s how his parents raised him and he thinks he turned out pretty great. Between him and Hamish… this kid would probably be pretty great, too. 

And he’d probably hold them all the time instead of letting them nap in their crib or wherever. Everyone says babies smell good, so maybe… maybe if they adopt a baby… maybe after a while, they’d smell like him and Hamish. 

And he’d probably get them a million toys and make up elaborate back stories for all the stuffed animals. Maybe he’d get a stuffed wolf and tell the kid his name is Graybeard. 

Does Hamish even want kids?

Does Randall? 

They just got engaged, why is he even thinking about this? He has at least six more years of school ahead of him. And they’re werewolves, and they’re in the Order, and -

“Hey.”

Damnit. Hamish smelled his feelings. And this is not the time for big discussions. Hamish had a rough morning and it wouldn’t be fair to spring big questions like, ‘Do you want kids?’ on him right now, but he just sat down and now he’s looking at Randall, brow knit with concern and clearly onto Randall. 

He sighs, wipes his hands on a dry towel and steps behind Hamish, digging his fingers into his shoulders. “I know we’re not talking about it, and we don’t have to, but I feel bad about earlier.” 

“None of that was your fault,” Hamish mumbles, wincing when Randall finds a knot. 

“I should have done something.”

“Like what? Go back in time and tell teenaged me not to take the money and wind up exactly where I am right now anyway but with nothing to show for it? I would have laughed and done it anyway. I was as stubborn then as I am now. I just had more optimism.”

“You mean you _had_ optimism.”

“Fair enough.” 

The proximity to Tundra via Hamish quiets Graybeard from boiling over to simmering, slows his pacing to fidgeting, but Randall’s still reeling from his own thoughts. 

“Actually,” Hamish muses as he smirks up at Randall, “I probably would have hit on you, _then_ I would have ignored you.”

“That is so inappropriate, I don’t even know where to start.” He traces a wide circle around Hamish’s scar. “Did you know these things would work like this?”

“No, and I’m honestly embarrassed by how long it took us to notice it.”

Randall shrugs. “We’re pretty oblivious.”

Hamish hums in agreement and tilts his head back till it meets Randall’s stomach. “It’s nice having your parents here. I forgot what it was like to not be the only functioning adult in this house."

Functioning. Riiiiight... “They’re Den Grandparents now.”

Hamish rolls his eyes. 

“They are! Look at them, they’re playing games with them and spoiling them with gift cards! Next year we’re going to get a mountain of cookies that we’ll have to _share_ , Hamish. With everyone.”

“The horror…”

“Exactly. And they’re going to be sending them birthday cards and trying to visit all the time. They might even make a group chat and spam us with memes all day.”

“Over my dead body,” Hamish deadpans. “Being loved is such a hardship. And seeing all of our friends so happy is … frankly just disgusting. I like them so much better when they’re acting like miserable strays you plucked off the campus sidewalks.”

“Strays make the most loyal companions. That’s why I kept you. I know you think you stole me, but really, I found you and decided to keep you forever.”

Hamish sighs, soft and content, so peaceful that Randall lets the conversation end there. He just keeps rubbing his shoulders and running his fingers through his hair, focuses on Hamish’s deepening breath and the way his eyelashes fan over his cheeks as his eyes slip closed. How his hair’s gotten darker in the absence of the sunlight. How the stubble of his jaw scrapes against his wrist when he rubs his face against Randall’s arm, and what would Hamish look like with a beard? Randall can’t grow one, it’s a moustache situation or bust and no one looks good with just a moustache, but Hamish would probably look good. Rugged. A little wild, even. Maybe Randall can talk him into trying it, or maybe he’ll grow one when he’s older. When the smile lines are just lines and his hair goes gray, now _that_ is a mental picture. 

Hamish’s lips brush over his skin as he asks, “What are you thinking about?”

“Spending forever with you,” Randall replies quietly, smoothing his hands down Hamish’s chest. “Growing old together and shit. Do you ever think about that?”

“Sometimes. I imagine doing a lot of things with you that I never used to let myself consider.” He covers Randall’s hands with his. “You make me brave like that.”

He could ask now. It’s a reasonable follow-up question, but first he should figure out if he’s more afraid of him saying he wants kids or he doesn’t. A kid, geez, they’re multiplying and they’re not even here yet. No, he means, they’re not even here at all. Not yet. Not… ever… maybe. 

“Hamish?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“You’re a really good person. You’re a loyal friend. You’re an amazing boyfriend/ werewolf-husband. You’re a fantastic pack co-leader. You’re a great Temple Magus and teacher. You’re going to be an incredible husband and… if there comes a time when we… uh, decide to … expand… you would, you know… be good at that… too.”

Wow. That went well. Super strong finish. 

Hamish looks up at him. “If we get there, you’ll be a really good dad, too.”

“I’d dress them up in costumes instead of clothes.”

“They’d probably love that,” Hamish laughs. “Kids hate wearing clothes.”

“Right?” Randall laughs, too, before he remembers this is all completely hypothetical. “Do… do you want that?”

“Kids?” 

“Yeah.” Randall swallows and goes on, “I mean, it’s… we can’t have a family and be Knights. Right?”

“Grafton Davis did.”

“And then he died and left his kid behind and she almost destroyed the world.”

“If she was our kid, she would have succeeded. Or just taken over the Order and bypassed the whole ordeal entirely.”

“Our kid wouldn’t have to take over the Order because you already did.”

“See? Our kid is already miles ahead of Salvador, and they don’t even exist yet.” Hamish turns around and grabs the back of Randall’s neck, pulling him closer. “Our kid would take over the goddamn world and, thanks to their crazy aunts and uncle, they would do it in style, with class, and a whole lot of explosions.”

This feels like a secret, like this thing they’re talking about is too small, too new, and if he speaks too loudly it’ll shatter, so he whispers, “And thanks to you, they would run the world a hell of a lot better than anyone else who’s ever tried global domination.”

  
“And thanks to you,” Hamish breathes, “they would run it with a lot more kindness than most people deserve. But I’d be just as happy if they worked at a coffee shop and lived in your old room upstairs for the rest of their lives. They can be anything they want as long as they’re happy and doing their best.”

He’s already ten times the parent his mother or father were, and this isn’t even real. This is just talking. This is all hypothetical and premature and daydreaming and, “I want that, Hamish.”

“Me, too.” Hamish kisses him, so this must be an agreement. A deal. A promise. “That makes it… a million dates, a thousand fancy dinners, an infinite number of kisses -”

“Werewolf honeymoon on the beach, Portugal, and the moon,” Randall supplies, grinning so hard his face hurts. “Also, one of us is getting fucked against that wall for real.”

“Good idea. And we’ll need an actual honeymoon. Since you picked the werewolf one, I get to pick this one.”

“So where are we going?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Randall rolls his eyes but he has to kiss him. Has to, he just has to. “And a kid.”

“And a kid,” Hamish agrees, “whose last name will be…”

“Carpio-Duke.”

  
“Because...”

Randall grins and dutifully repeats, “I want your dad to roll over in his grave every time someone says it.” 

It must really be a good idea because Hamish surges up to kiss him, nearly knocking the chair to the ground as he kicks it out from between them, and the absolute madness of the past twenty-four hours - they got engaged, Hamish got disowned, they made their own family, they’re going to keep adding to it -, no, wait, the absolute madness of their entire lives - werewolves and being chosen and magic and making choices and soulmates and choosing each other over everything else - hits him at the same time that his back hits the wall and Hamish’s body crashes into his, how every single moment in their lives led up to this, to soft lips and hard kisses and reverent hands and desperate touching. Deals and promises and pledging their lives to each other in every way possible, and it doesn’t make up for every bad thing that’s ever happened to them, Randall can’t fix Hamish’s past. But he can promise him a future together, and maybe that’s enough. 

A throat clears loudly from the general area of the doorway. A masculine throat, too gruff to be Jack, and that means Randall’s dad just walked in on them making out. Hardcore making out. His hands are all the way up Hamish’s shirt. Hamish’s hands are on his ass. Randall’s definitely sporting a semi and it feels like Hamish is, too, but if he moves his leg to check, it might go from a slight erection to a full on boner and that would be rude. 

His head drops heavily to Hamish’s shoulder. “Um. Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, Randall,” his dad greets. There’s some shuffling, like his dad is torn between standing there and running far, far away, Randall’s a big fan of that second one. “We just, uh, heard the chair fall over and-”

‘We’?!?

He peeks over Hamish’s shoulder and, yepp, there’s his mom and all his friends. Which shouldn’t be a big deal since they bought him and Hamish sex stuff for an engagement present, but this is now the second time Jack Morton has cock-blocked him and if he does it one more time, he’s outta the pack. (Not really, but he’s at least getting his ass kicked. OK, also, not really. But Randall’s going to be mad!)

“- wanted to make sure you guys are OK.”

“No, yeah, that’s… nice of you. All of you. But we’re good. Right, Hamish?”

“Oh yeah,” Hamish says immediately. “All good in here. We were just coming back to watch the movie.”

“Right,” Randall agrees. “We were. Doing that.”

“Then shouldn’t you guys be doing that against the counter?” Alyssa asks innocently. “Since that’s technically the closest surface to the door? If you were on your way, that is.”

Hamish glances down at Randall. “She’s thirty percent your fault.”

“I’m a hundred percent your fault,” Randall reminds him, “which makes all of them a hundred percent your fault.”

“I don’t think that’s how math works.”

“It is,” Randall insists, smiling because Hamish is leaning in again. “I promise.”

Hamish grunts out a skeptical, “Uh-huh” before giving him a slow, deep kiss that, swear to god, makes his knees weak, before stepping away and turning back to the group. “Can we watch an actual Christmas movie now?”

“Thank you!” Gabrielle cries. 

“We can watch _Rudolph the Red-Nosed_ Haim _deer,_ ” Randall suggests, elbowing Hamish in case he missed what he just did there. “I am on a roll today!”

Hamish sighs, shaking his head. “You just lost any and all naming privileges for our future child.”

Now Randall is dying to find out if Hamish has ideas for the name of their hypothetical child, if he’s been thinking about this long enough and just waiting for Randal to warm up to the idea, but Hamish pulls him along to the living room. He takes his usual spot in the corner and pulls Randall into the space between his legs, folding his arms around Randall’s chest, and when his finger brushes over his scar, all he feels is happy. Excited for the endless possibilities, as long as it's the two of them. 

He can ask Hamish about the names later. They’ve got time.


End file.
